Fortitude: A Full Sea
by jtm1848
Summary: A semi-original series, based off my enduring frustration with Voyager.  We have a new cast of characters that starts with a familiar basis, but goes off in a different direction.  Please let me know if it's worth continuing!


– A FULL SEA –

Acrid aromas and sour stenches filled the smoky air of the cockpit as the _Tom Joad _shook again, inertial suppressors screaming with pain as Ma-chú-na-zhe tapped the controls, goosing the raider into a stomach-churning twisting dive to port, desperately seeking to evade the disruptor fire lashing them from the Cardassian cruiser. Enveloped within thick and heated smoke, Na-zhe could barely see the piloting instruments; but his fingertips roamed the pads with instinct, his body reading the quaking movements of the nimble craft.

"Report!" Na-zhe barked sharply, his voice repeating a split second later from the earpiece nestled around his left ear. He spoke strongly, his face and throat protected from the toxic fumes by a simple breathing mask. "Sa'awek, _report!_"

"Shields are at sixty percent!" The bronze-skinned Vulcan, lost somewhere in the smoke behind Na-zhe, did not sound the least bit rattled; he could not be rattled, not even with his feet to the flames of the plasma fire creeping across the deck. "We must seek shelter!"

"Fucking _shit_!" The furious interjection, accompanying the barely-heard banging of a fist on a panel, was distinctly feminine. "A fuel line has ruptured!"

"Try to hold impulse, De'Vora!" Na-zhe could barely hear the woman, even with the benefit of his earpiece; the screaming sirens and wailing whines of battered machinery, the hissing intensity of fires, and the shuddering quakes of the faltering craft were besieging him from every side.

"With _what_?" De'Vora retorted angrily.

"I don't know!" Ma-chu snapped back, only a small portion of his thoughts devoted to the engineering problem. Anticipating the pattern of fire, he juked the _Tom Joad _into a somersaulting arc, while silently praying that the pummeled frame would withstand the shearing force. "Figure it out!"

"Shields are at fifty percent!" Sa'awek called out, his placidity incongruous in the tumult.

_Damnit, _Ma-chu snarled silently, cursing the fates that had so randomly placed the _Vetor _in precisely the wrong miniature corner of space. _Here goes nothing. _Tapping the control panel again, he turned the ship over in a spiraling sideways dive, pulling out halfway.

He could feel the strain on the ship, but the _Tom Joad _held.

With the dive barely complete, Ma'chu's thoughts were already shifting forward. "I need more power for the engines!" he shouted, forgoing the computer and factoring calculations in his mind. "Or we won't make it to the Badlands!" The Badlands—a sector-wide patch of violent storms and plasma phenomena—were too brutal for a large warship such as the _Vetor_; but the smaller Maquis raider could travel the storms in relative safety. It formed a briar patch of sorts for the militia.

"From where?" De'Vora shouted back, venting frustration upon her crewmates' ears. "The only place left is the weapons!"

"I would not recommend that at this time!" Sa'awek countered.

"What does it matter?" For Ma-chu, the decision was immediate and simple; he was not afraid of dying in battle—_but there is no logic,_ he thought, grimly—_in dying futilely in battle. _"We're not denting their shields anyway! Sa'awek, shut down the phasers! De'Vora, dump the power into the impulse generators! Don't be gentle—I only need thirty seconds!" If he could see through the banks of blackened smoke, the outer edge of the Badlands would already be visible to the naked eye.

Raw energy poured over from the weapons, unrestrained by any effort to modulate it; and the _Tom Joad _shuddered again as the impulse rockets nearly exploded with the added juice, gyrating wildly along its rough course on the front wave of nuclear annihilation. "Sa'awek, directions!" Ma-chu barked out, as he struggled to hold the craft on a straight line.

"Come about zero-seven-one!" the Vulcan replied almost instantaneously, and the commands were input less than a second later. "We're crossing the threshold of a plasma storm!"

_Hang on, _Ma-chu told himself, grim-faced with the exertion of piloting the bucking craft. Inside the turbulent storm, streams of plasma—energy bolts wider than their ship—leapt back and forth in chaotic fashion. Ma-chu targeted his thoughts, seeking out the distinct vibrations as he whipped through the lightning maze, searching for a safe haven in which to park.

"The fucking Cardassians are following us in!" De'Vora shouted gleefully.

"The Cardassian ship has lost its gyrostability," Sa'awek added. His composure stood in stark contrast to the excitable, ripple-headed woman.

It meant one thing—_one likely thing,_ Ma-chu amended, but the odds were strong. _The Vetor's been struck by a plasma streamer, and they're disabled. _"Do we have any photon torpedoes left?"

"We have two chambered," Sa'awek answerd.

_Good enough. _"Fire," Ma-chu ordered. Still blinded by the smoke, he awaited the next cue from his companions.

"Two direct hits," Sa'awek announced dispassionately. "The _Vetor _is breaking up."

_And that, _Ma-chu told himself, _is how we snatch victory out of defeat._ It wasn't the first time that the outclassed Maquis raiders had beaten the Cardassian dreadnaughts—and, the Fates willing, it wouldn't be the last. "What's our own status?" he asked, finally taking the time to wave smoke away from his face.

"We're holding together," De'Vora answered. Fatigue was rapidly replacing her battlefield passion. "But we need to drydock. We can't make the repairs out here."

_Very well. _Ma-chu slumped backward in his chair, allowing tense muscles to relax for the first time in hours. _It's worth it. It's like—_Ma'chu frowned and blinked his eyes, uncertain if he had really seen the fractional wave of light. "What was that?"

"Unknown." Sa'awek's brevity was chilling. "It appears to be some sort of…coherent tetryon beam."

_Not good, _Ma-chu told himself. Tetryons were a subspace phenomenon—to be detected in normal space meant that they had an artificial source.

"A massive displacement wave is moving towards us!" Sa'awek's tone grew clipped and urgent. "It is not a known phenomenon. Intercept in less than thirty seconds!"

"De'Vora! Get us out!" Ma-chu barked, reacting instinctively.

"I'm trying!" she rejoined.

"Wave is accelerating!" Sa'awek added, speaking over the ad hoc engineer. "Intercept in—"

Reality washed away in whiteness.

...

It was a beautiful day in New Zealand.

Then again, it was always beautiful on the northern island. The tip of the island—a little further to the north—was nearly tropical, located only a few degrees south of the Tropic of Capricorn. Even the southern-most tip was only halfway between the equator and the southern pole, and the leeward sides of the islands were sheltered from the gusting winds of the South Pacific.

Andriy Nazariovich Shevchenko was not a student of history; but he had often heard of an old network of prisons located in the frozen wastelands of the Siberian Arctic, where the sun either never set or never rose and leaving the compound meant certain death. He wasn't sure which was crueler…that, or imprisoning people just a stone's throw away from paradise.

Without a visible fence.

There was, however, the familiar weight of the ankle bracelet fastened on his right leg. It was primarily psychological; the technology needed to enforce the electromagnetic barrier, operate the tracking chip, and induce a debilitating stun if necessary, could all be packed in a chip the size of a fingernail. And, in fact, just such a chip was implanted at the base of his neck.

But the wardens of the so-called "penal settlement" couldn't settle for that.

Instead, the bracelets were there as a constant reminder to prisoner that he was, in fact, a prisoner; a remnant of the physical chains that were once used, to impose upon the psyche the reality of being caged like a misbehaving animal.

Some fought against it. Others resigned themselves to it. Andriy was the latter.

The primary enemy in the "penal settlement" was boredom; and however much it galled him to play the role of the perfect inmate, Andriy had willingly enlisted in the Works and Rehabilitation Program, constructing socially-useful apparatuses and earning good credits towards early release. Today, on another clear, sunny day, he was atop scaffolding, fastening self-sealing stem bolts on what would eventually become a children's merry-go-round.

"Andriy Nazariovich?" The woman's voice was fair and pleasant, revealing none of the attitude common among the guards; and so, more from curiosity, he raised an arm and looked under it, down to the ground two meters below. It was a Starfleet officer who was speaking to him (no surprise there, as he was an enlisted member of Starfleet and the "penal settlement" served double-duty as the incarceration facility for court-martialed officers), but her face bore none of the hostility he was accustomed to receiving.

"My name's Christine York," she added as Andriy surveyed her quickly, checking first her brassiere size and then the rank pips on her collar; she was wearing a new style of uniform, black with gray shoulders, and the blue turtleneck beneath—not the usual red of command—held the four pips of a captain.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance, Captain," Andriy replied, speaking almost lethargically. "You have me at a bit of a disadvantage."

"I'd be happy to remedy that," she replied graciously. "I wonder if we could go somewhere and talk?"

"Talk?" Andriy gave a show of thinking for a moment. "Talk about what?"

"About a job we'd like you to do for us," she answered.

"I'm already doing a job for you," Andriy rejoined, tapping the duranium beam.

"And I've been told that the Rehab Commission is very pleased with your work," Christine responded. Andriy chaffed inwardly at the reminder, but said nothing. "They've given me their approval to discuss this matter with you."

"Well, then, I guess I'm at your disposal," Andriy answered with fake grace. Swinging a leg around, he climbed down the scaffolding ladder to join her. "Shall we take a walk?"

"This way, perhaps?" Christine gestured forward, and the two fell into step. "I served with your father once."

"That old fraud?" Andriy snorted loudly.

Christine stiffened perceptibly, but bit her tongue. "I'd like to talk to you about the Badlands," she said instead, opting to skip the small talk. "I'm leading a mission to find a Maquis ship that disappeared in the plasma storms a week ago."

"I know Starfleet has a high opinion of itself, but…" Andriy shook his head. "There's a difference between self-confidence and stupidity."

"And what do you mean by that?" Christine's reply was soft, but it carried a steel edge.

"Why do you think the Maquis _use _the Badlands?" Andriy asked rhetorically. "It takes both an experienced pilot and a nimble ship to maneuver in there. Starfleet has neither."

"As far as a nimble ship goes," Christine rejoined, "you're a little out of date. She's called the _Fortitude_—and she's built for the rougher parts of space."

"And what about a pilot?" Andriy asked, wanting to draw out the answer; he knew what was coming, but wanted to make this conceited captain ask for his help.

"That's what I'm here for," Christine answered smoothly. "We'd like you to come along; help us navigate the plasma storms, and track down their hiding places."

Andriy chuckled coldly. "You'd like me to lead you to my comrades?"

"I don't think they feel the same way about you," Christine jabbed back with a targeted blow.

It hit home. "I was only with the Maquis for a few weeks before I was captured," Andriy answered, begrudgingly. "I don't know where most of their hiding places are—and that was several years ago."

Christine shrugged nonchalantly. "If you'd prefer, I can leave you here."

Andriy eyed the captain carefully. "What's so special about this one, anyway? Starfleet doesn't usually care about Maquis ships that go missing."

"We had an uncover agent on board," Christine replied nimbly.

"Oh, and that's why?" Andriy clucked his tongue. "I should've known that you weren't concerned about the lives of the Maquis."

"I think you will be," Christine responded. "This ship is under the command of a Starfleet deserter. Goes by the name 'Ma-chú-na-zhe.'"

"Ah." Andriy paused to pick his words carefully. "And you know that he and I…have a little history."

"So I'm told," Christine answered mildly.

"And if I help you find him…" It would be a reward unto itself, but Andriy didn't want to tip his hand.

"You help us find that ship, we help you at your next review," Christine stated firmly. "And no, I can't guarantee your release."

"I'm sorry, but that sounds like you're offering nothing but a hollow promise," Andriy replied.

Christine shrugged again. "Then I'll leave you here."

Andriy ground his teeth as he counted to three. "All right, when do we leave?"

...

_{Several days later}_

"_Come to Quark's, Quark's is fun, come to Quark's, don't walk, run!_"

The jingle was ridiculous, but catchy, Alexander Ch'ang thought to himself as he sipped the bizarre alien beverage before him. The garishly-lit Ferengi bar and gambling emporium was the last place the newly-minted ensign had expected to find himself—graduating only two weeks earlier, he had been fortunate enough to receive a direct posting on board a starship. But the starship was several sectors away. And by the time he had arrived at this—_dirty _outpost—_Voyager _was out of dock, conducting a shakedown in a neighboring system.

And other than the Bajoran temple, there was little else to do in this…den of vice.

"If I may say so, it's been my special pleasure to see many new officers like yourself come through these portals." His eyes glued to his drink, Alexander—never Alex—nearly fell off his barstool with surprise at the appearance alien. "Let me introduce myself—my name is Quark, and I'm the owner and proprietor of this fine establishment."

"I, um, it's nice to meet you," Alexander stammered, futilely trying to remember his social protocols for meeting Ferengi (_did they teach that at the academy?)_. The Ferengi's jacket, a clashing mélange of bright colors and shiny brass, nearly gave the young ensign vertigo (_or is that the drink? I didn't order anything alcoholic…I think…)_

"Your parents must be _very _proud, my boy," the Ferengi went on, his voice grating and officious (_I wonder if there are beings in the galaxy with more annoying voices? I hope I never meet one!)_ "You know, on an occasion like this—"

"I'm not interested," Alexander interrupted.

"Interested in what?" the Ferengi replied.

"You—you were going to try to sell me something, right?" _(Oh no, I just assumed he was going to…have I offended him now? What is this going to do to interspecies relations?)_

"I was merely going to suggest that your parents might appreciate a memento of your first mission." The Ferengi spoke with a slight tone of rebuke.

"And you happen to have several to chose from, right?" Alexander countered, relieved that he hadn't made a fatal _faux pas. (At least, I don't think I have…)_

"I do happen to carry a select line of unique artifacts and gem stones indigenous to this region," the Ferengi answered, almost bashfully. "Why, quite recently I acquired some rare Lobi crystals from a very strange creature called a Morn. I—"

Satisfied now, Alexander interrupted again. "We were warned about the Ferengi at Starfleet Academy."

The Ferengi staggered backward, a mortified expression on his face. "_Warned_? About the Ferengi?"

"That's right."

"Slurs about my people at Starfleet Academy?" The Ferengi was astonished, as if mortally wounded.

_(Oh, crap.) _"What I meant was—"

"Here I am," the Ferengi interrupted, "Trying to be a cordial host, knowing how much a young officer's parents would appreciate a token of his love on the eve of a dangerous mission." His voice was building to a peak. "And what do I get for my troubles?" he demanded, almost squealing the last word. "Scurrilous insults! Racial slurs! From the high-and-mighty Starfleet officer! Well, someone's going to hear about this!" He leaned forward, into Alexander's face. "What's your name, son?"

"My—my name?" Alexander stammered.

"You do have one, I presume?"

"Yes—Ch'ang. Alexander Ch'ang. But I—"

"And who was it at the Academy who _warned _you about the Ferengi?"

"I—ah—I—You know, I think a memento for my parents would be a great idea."

"Oh _no _you don't!" the Ferengi exclaimed. "You think you can come in here, to my warm welcome, and insult my race and then treat me like some cheap _merchant_? How _dare _you? I have the right to refuse service—"

"What about those?" Alexander broke in, pointing to a random gemstone. "It would make a great pendant for my mother."

"Or cufflinks for your father," the Ferengi suggested.

"Cufflinks. Great idea!"

"They're not for sale. Now, inform your commanding officer that the Federation Council can expect an official inquiry. And vacate _my _establishment, before I have you thrown out!"

"How much for the entire tray?" Alexander asked desperately, scrambling to quiet the bartender.

"Cash or credit?"

"Dazzling, aren't they?" Both Alexander and the Ferengi turned at the sound of a new voice to see a young man, dressed in Starfleet duty gear but wearing no pips, step up to the bar. "As bright as a Koladan diamond."

"Brighter," the Ferengi agreed, backing off suspiciously. Behind the newcomer, a pair of Starfleet security guards were conspicuously present.

"It's hard to believe you can find them on any planet in the system," the newcomer commented nonchalantly.

"That's an exaggeration," the Ferengi countered hurriedly. "And there is the convenience."

"True," the newcomer agreed. "And there's a shop down the Promenade selling them for a single Cardassian _lek_. How much are you selling these for?"

"We were just about to negotiate the price."

Grabbing Alexander by the shoulder, the newcomer led him out of the bar. "You shouldn't be in there anyway," he said as they walked, followed by the two guards. "Didn't they warn you about the Ferengi at the Academy?"

"Thanks," Alexander replied, relieved. "I'm Ensign Alexander Ch'ang."

"Ah. I'm…Andriy Shevchenko."

...

"Beautiful," Andriy murmured, temporarily lost in space despite the cramped confines of the shuttle cockpit. It was an enduring tradition in Starfleet that new crew boarded their ship for the first time via shuttle, taking a leisurely flight in; it was the only way, in considered opinion, to properly appreciate the space-borne grace of the great starships…the gentle sweep of its rounded curves…_the smoldering fire of the lit nacelles…_

"Mr. Shevchenko," Lieutenant Veronica Stadi whispered, not wishing to disturb the experience for the others, "take your eyes off my breasts."

Andriy stepped back slightly with a feigned expression of hurt. "Stadi, were you reading my thoughts?"

"I don't need to. _Mr. _Shevchenko," she repeated, adding the emphasis of command. It didn't require her Betazoid senses to feel his attention.

"Is that the _Fortitude_?" Alexander broke in, uncomfortable with the tension; and he mentally berated himself. "I mean, _sir, _I know what the _Fortitude _looks like. I just—"

"At ease, Ensign," Veronica replied, addressing the young man with far more warmth. The three of them were crammed in the cockpit, standing behind the pilot; the flight was for Ch'ang's benefit. Veronica had tagged along, never tiring of this view…and _Mr. _Shevchenko had invited himself. "That's our ship. That's the _Fortitude._"

Linked to Deep Space Nine by only a single docking pylon, the graceful starship hung in space; bringing them in from the rear, the shuttle pilot glided to the starboard side, easing the auxiliary craft along the body of the _Fortitude_ before looping over the front bow. "There she is," Veronica repeated, herself somewhat lost in the sublime moment. "_Albion _series, _Intrepid _class. 345 meters long, sustainable cruise velocity of warp factor nine-point-nine-seven-five." As she mentioned the speed, Veronica sensed Shevchenko's gaze shifting. "Standard crew complement of 141. Bio-neural circuitry."

"What?" Andriy's head swiveled around. "_Bio-neural _circuitry?"

"Yes," Alexander confirmed quickly, rushing to remedy his earlier error. "Much of the isolinear circuitry has been replaced by gel packs that contain bio-neural networks. They're capable of functioning autonomically, allowing them to organize information more efficiently, speed up response time, and—"

"And have an identity crisis," Andriy muttered. "Are you sure it's _safe_?"

"The _Fortitude _has been using bio-neural circuitry for three years now," Veronica answered calmly, with only a hint of pride.

"But any emergent properties would take time to develop," Andriy countered, his thoughts now far away from the Betazoid's curves.

"I'm sure Starfleet tested it thoroughly," Alexander replied, with the confidence borne of a trusting officer. "They wouldn't put anything on the ship that was dangerous."

"Except for you, _Mr. _Shevchenko," Veronica added.

...

It was a rare event—sitting at Starbase, on the eve of a mission, only minutes to go before launch—for Christine York to find herself with a spare moment of quietude. But the arrangements were made, supplies transferred, the ship prepped and ready; all that waited was the arrival of a handful of officers and their passenger. The primary crew was already at their duty posts, counting down the time until the _Fortitude_'s impending launch.

She was, or so Christine told herself, uncomfortable with sitting on the bridge with nothing to do, unable to stay still yet unwilling to show impatience in front of her crew. And there was some of that; some sliver of truth, at least as far as it went.

But it was only part of the reason for her retreat to the captain's ready room, and if she had to be frank, a minor part; for she had done plenty of bridge duty under other circumstances, and encountered little trouble. No, she was simply uncomfortable being on the bridge; she had been for the last year.

_A year ago…_a year ago, at this time, Christine had been the chief science officer onboard the _Fortitude_. Oh, sure, it came with a command rank; she was, nominally speaking, the second officer of the starship. But she wasn't a command officer; she had neither aspirations nor desires of commanding a Starfleet ship. She far preferred the team-oriented approach of the science labs, and the captain had agreeably exempted her from standard duty watches.

She was a _scientist, _damnit, not a commander. She had been happy with her position, both in Starfleet and in life. But six months ago…a minor squabble, and unimportant spat that barely ruffled the diplomats' feathers resulted in the _Fortitude _limping home with severe battle damage and a dead captain. Critically injured, the first officer was confined to sickbay, then transferred to Starfleet Medical.

So Christine had brought the ship and its crew home, fully expecting to then return to her usual duties. But Command had kept her on as the interim commander during drydock repairs, and then through the shakedown cruises; but the "interim" tag had not been removed. _And still has not…_

And here she was, the pretender to a command chair that rightfully belonged to another.

The door chimed, and with a sigh, Christine set down her hot cocoa. "Come in," she announced, mentally checking her appearance for the appropriate gravitas.

Two men entered, one clad in Starfleet gear, the other in a bright orange sweater; and the younger, a man of Korean descent, immediately stiffened into parade readiness. "Ensign Alexander Ch'ang, reporting for duty, _sir,_" he barked out formally; the second man merely rolled his eyes.

"At ease, Ensign," Christine commanded, standing up from the settee, "before you sprain something. And I prefer 'ma'am,'" she added, wryly. "And it's good to see that you made it, Mr. Shevchenko."

"Your guards are quite alert," the taller man, Andriy Shevchenko, answered with a dry smile of his own.

Christine let it pass. "We're getting ready to leave. Let me show you to the bridge."

...

It was not what Andriy was expecting.

The graceful, horseshoe design of the _Fortitude_'s command center harkened back to the curves of the short-lived _Galaxy _class of starships, considered by many to be the high-water point of open design. Laid out in an ellipse, fatter towards the rear of the bridge than the fore, the center was dominated by a circular arc railing, flowing elegantly downward as it completed two-thirds of a circle. Inside, on a raised platform, could be found three chairs; the captain, the first officer, and the auxiliary "jump seat."

On either side, gently-sloping ramps wrapped around the rail, leading down to an expansive main viewscreen, flanked on either side by turbolift doors; and Andriy's eyes were drawn to the large helm console in the middle. It was spacious enough for two operators—and two fixed chairs sat behind it—although, under normal operating conditions, only one was necessary.

Along the outer edges of the ramps, expansive operating displays were set into the bulkheads, and a narrow, leveled platform ran along the base. At the front—where the platform rose above the lower deck—forward-facing consoles jutted out, with swiveling stools set behind them. Lieutenant Stadi sat behind one, manning the comm controls; the other, a science sub-station, was temporarily vacant.

Next, as the upper deck began to curve inward, was a pair of flanking stations, set partially back into the main wall. Each one had a full, waist-high console wrapping around. One was clearly the tactical post; and the other, Andriy reasoned by a process of elimination, must be the engineering and operations liaison. Behind them were two doors, both leading to the conference lounge to the rear of the bridge; and between was a floor-to-ceiling one-way window. It allowed crew in the conference lounge to view the bridge, and could be reconfigured for any number of readouts; and for crew on the bridge, it could likewise display ship's schematics, sensor readings, be an auxiliary viewscreen…

And the entire bridge was decorated with the nauseating bright pastels of current design aesthetics.

"This is my first officer, Lieutenant Commander Cavit." Andriy's attention was drawn back to the captain's voice as she introduced the bland-faced man walking towards them. "Commander Cavit, this is Ensign Ch'ang and Mr. Shevchenko."

"Welcome aboard," the undistinguished man said curtly, giving a nodding acknowledgment to Ch'ang; Andriy almost winced as the young man seemed to snap his back as he stiffened. Cavit refused to look at Shevchenko, choosing instead to brush by, and Andriy mentally added the first officer to the list of pompous asses serving in the fleet.

"Ensign Ch'ang." Captain York was gesturing towards the unused rear console. "This is your station. Would you like to man it, while we leave dock?" It was a friendly gesture—Andriy recognized that—for departing procedures were handled via the helm and communications, requiring nothing from operations.

"Yes, sir," Alexander answered, his voice revealing his eagerness; and as Captain York made her way down to the command platform, the new officer trotted the several steps to his station. Andriy, for his part, suddenly found himself standing alone on the upper deck; and feeling awkwardly conspicuous, he settled on a standing position behind the railing, on the far side from Cavit.

"Helm, report," Captain York ordered as she took her seat.

"All systems are a go."

"Communications?"

"Deep Space Nine reports that we are cleared for release," Veronica Stadi confirmed.

"Very well," York announced. "Retract docking clamps." The starship barely quivered as the clamps released. "Thrusters at one-half. Take us out, helm."

Within moments, the _Fortitude _leapt to warp, on its way to the Badlands.

...

Andriy could hardly believe that space had once been at a premium on board starships.

On deck two, with expansive windows offering a forward-looking vista of the Cherenkov radiation flashing past, was the ship's lounge. Alone of all the starship compartments, it lacked the institutionalized feel of bland walls and pastels; instead, as Andriy stepped in, taking a gander about the room, it had the feeling of a classy cruise ship, catering to those who wished to travel in comfort and style.

The inner wall—the rear wall—was a lengthy bar, made of what appeared to be real mahogany tipped with a shiny brass railing. Decorative stonework faced behind it, with swiveling stools at the forefront; with ship's time being early evening, a handful of the stools were occupied by off-duty crewmembers.

Stepping up to the bar, Andriy was surprised when the tender greeted him with a warm smile. "A bowl of chicken spaetzle soup," Andiry requested, and the tender stepped away for a moment to replicate the order.

_Where should I sit…_in some ways, Starfleet ships were like school cafeterias, Andriy figured. A row of decorative tables and plush chairs lined the front of the lounge, mostly occupied; and the only faces he recognized were those of Alexander Ch'ang and Commander Cavit.

"Thank you," Andriy said sincerely as he took his soup. With a nonchalant shrug, he walked over towards the two familiar men; and when Shevchenko drew near, such that his intentions could not be in doubt, Cavit stood up with an angry glare and walked away.

"I've had warmer welcomes on Sedna," Andriy remarked airily as he sat down, before catching the cold look on Ch'ang's face. "Ah. He must've told you about me."

"Is it true?" Alexander retorted.

"That depends on what he told you," Andriy replied, faking ease. "But I'm guessing that it's all true, and more."

"You're not even denying it?"

"What would be the point?" Andriy shrugged lightly. "I plead guilty, after all. Yes, I was trafficking narcotics inside Starfleet, and yes, three people died from a tainted batch. And I deserted while my court-martial was pending, then spent a year as a mercenary. A lot of people believe that I fought against Starfleet officers…but the prosecutors found no evidence of that."

"Why didn't you tell me this?" Alexander replied, stone-faced.

Andriy shrugged again. "Maybe because, some day, I'd like to be known for something else."

Ch'ang's expression softened slightly. "It must have been especially tough for you," he remarked. "Being the son of an admiral, and all."

"Frankly, Alexander, I think it was tougher on my father than it was on me." Slumping back in his chair, Andriy gave out a deep sigh. "Look, I know Cavit told you to stay away from me. And you know what? You should. I'm not exactly what they call a 'good influence.' Hang around with me, and who knows? I might infect you with something."

"York to Shevchenko." The captain's voice intruded, cutting short the conversation.

"Shevchenko here," Andriy replied, tapping his combadge unhurriedly.

"We're approaching the Badlands, Mr. Shevchenko. Report to the bridge at once."

**«ɵ»**

_{Several days later}_

The Badlands.

The dangerous beauty of the roiling storms filled the _Fortitude_'s viewscreen with the raging blaze of plasma streamers and seething bolts of fire leaping across the empty spaces between pillars of conflagration and jetting flame. Concussive detonations, exploding at irregular intervals, sent powerful eddies bombarding the foolhardy; fusillades of glowing flares erupted outward, sending great packets of ionized particles far into the frozen depths of surrounding space.

It was not a place for the meek or the courageous; it was a place for the desperate and for the foolish. Travel lanes, constantly shifting as the fiery arcs appeared and disappeared, were barely large enough to thread with a compact ship; and eddies invariably threatened, powerful enough to send a vessel swirling sideways into a pillar of flame, its protective shields instantly defeated and the tritanium hull perforated by the punch of superheated plasma.

_And here we are, _Christine thought to herself, _the foolish chasing the desperate._ They had entered the Badlands two days previous; and every hour, every minute, had been spent on edge, every crewmember at their post as the _Fortitude _carefully made its way through the treacherous terrain. A wrong step, a missed turn, a sudden shift in plasma fury could spell certain death.

_And all this for a single Maquis raider?_

"This is the furthest reported position of the Cardassian warship," Lieutenant Rollins confirmed as the _Fortitude _threaded between a pair of flanking jetstreams. Damaged by a plasma bolt, the _Vetor _had been forced to turn around, rather fortunate to survive at all.

_It's a starting point, but not much, _Christine realized, watching the readout over Rollins' shoulder. The two officers and Andriy were clustered around the auxiliary post, running detailed sensor analyzes. "Mr. Shevchenko. From this point, what would their most likely heading be?"

Shrugging casually, Andriy exhibited none of the tension of the others. "From here?" he queried rhetorically. He dragged a finger across the readout before settling on a target. "I'd guess they were trying to get to the Terikof Belt. It has several marginal planetoids."

Rollins cleared his throat roughly. "The Moriya system is on the same general heading, and a light-year closer."

"The Maquis are a little smarter than you," Andriy rejoined, wedging a blade inward. "The Moriya system is closer—_if _you're dumb enough to fight the plasma wakes."

_He's right, _Christine noted, bending slightly closer to trace the isobars with her eyes. The plasma wakes were anything but straight—and even though the Terikof Belt was further away, the journey would be far safer. "Pipe the course changes to the helm," she ordered, straightening back up. "Keep an eye out for any debris."

"Captain." Andriy lowered his voice to a covert whisper, unheard by anyone else. "The Cardassians claim that they forced the _Tom Joad _into a plasma storm that destroyed the raider. If that's the case—and, hell, you can't really trust the Cardassians—the debris would've been swept away by now."

"We might still pick up a resonance trace from the warp core," Christine countered firmly. It was a slim hope, _akin to following a trail of breadcrumbs in the middle of a windstorm, _but it had a shot.

"Captain!" Ch'ang's urgency overrode the whispered conversation, adding a spark to the tense kindling among the crew. "I'm reading—some sort of energy beam scanning us, sir!"

Christine's head swiveled around. "Can you identify it?" she barked.

"It's some sort of coherent tetryon beam, sir!" The alarmed confirmation came from tactical. "Nothing I recognize!"

_A __tetryon__ beam? _Tetryons did not exist naturally in this fold of space—they were a subspace phenomenon, requiring an artificial cause to break through. "Can you identify the origin?" she barked again, even as the wailing screams of red alert kicked in. No known race used a tetryon beam in this manner—_and the Badlands are not the place to meet a stranger._

"I'm trying, sir!" Ch'ang replied, desperation high in his voice as he poured through the sensor readings, frantically seeking any clue as to the source of the beam.

"Captain, I'm reading a subspace displacement wave moving towards us!"

A cold chill stiffened Christine's spine. _Oh, shit. _"Helm, pilot us away! Ch'ang, give me an analysis! Put it on screen!" she shouted, the orders tumbling out on top of one another. She jogged down the ramp, as if her physical proximity to the viewscreen would somehow make a difference; but the band of energy appearing onscreen was something unknown, something alien, something that didn't even belong in this region of space.

"Altering course!"

"Release a tachyon field from the nacelles!"

"No effect!"

"The wave is closing!"

"Increase speed!"

"Time to intercept?"

"Twelve seconds!"

"Evasive!"

"The wavefront's too broad!"

"Five seconds!"

"All hands, _brace for impact!_"

Reality washed away in whiteness.

...

Reality returned in a thundering cacophony of noise and smoke. Shrill alarms were wailing overhead, accompanied crackling fires and hissing gases. Shockwaves of heat rolled across the bridge, singeing skin and hair, while the damage itself was nearly invisible behind noxious clouds of dark black smoke and ash, hanging in the air like a blanket of coal dust as thick as particle-filled pea soup.

Christine York rolled over on the deck, slowly, feeling the shooting pains and dull bruises that seemed to cover her body, some radiating from far too deep within her abused muscles On her stomach, holding her faces bare centimeters over the debris-strewn carpet, she inhaled uneasily; fiery particles seared her nasal passages as she forced down the hyperventilation, counting slowly as she breathed in, then out, suppressing the powerful urge hack the air back out. Each breath hurt her lungs; but as the oxygen began to flow, she felt her vertigo stabilize and her senses flow back to normal.

In the smoky dimness, she crawled hesitantly feeling every fracture and tear in her body as she wormed her way across the deck. She was near a bulkhead; and reaching outward, she hit the lowest panel, triggering it open. A breathing mask and pony tank flopped out, and she grabbed the equipment, jamming it over her face; and as the clear oxygen began to circulate, pumping the poisonous fumes and particles from her body, she breathed heavily, sucking in with frantic relief.

Only now could Christine turn her attention to the bridge; looking around as she twisted her body, she saw nothing above waist-level. The thickened smoke was opaque; and in the crawl space beneath it, flames and emergency floor lighting fought to provide the light made dim by falling dust. In this realm, along the floor, she saw a body laying insensate; and worming her way, she rolled it over.

She thought it was Rollins, but wasn't sure; the face was a mass of blackened tissue.

Lifting her mask for a quick second, Christine wretched, ejecting black soot from her belly. But it made her feel better; the pain in her abdomen eased, and she turned around again to survey what remained of her command.

A wave and a pumped fist drew Christine's attention, and she squirmed several meters to the survivor, who likewise was clad in a transparent breathing mask; but the bright orange sweater immediately identified Andriy Shevchenko. _Figures, _Christine thought to herself, still grateful to find him. The convict had an oddly-reassuring affect on her.

Andriy pumped his fist again, and pointed to the rear door leading from the bridge; and together, with the captain close on Andriy's heels, they made their way through. Amazingly, the door operated normally; and it shut again behind them, allowing in only a portion of the smoke. Another door opened, allowing them into the conference lounge; and Christine finally staggered to her feet, counting her blessings that the lounge appeared to be moderately undamaged.

"Captain!" Alexander Ch'ang was the only other officer in the room, and he stood before a side console, watching the flow of data.

"Status report!" Christine commanded, removing her mask and hacking out a ball of soot.

"Comm lines to engineering are down! I'm reading a hull breach on deck fourteen, and a massive explosion just outside sickbay!"

"What about external sensors?" Andriy was on the move, activating a second console. "Do we have—oh, _fuck, _what's that?"

"There's something out there, Captain!" Alexander added frantically.

"I need a better description than that!" Christine rejoined.

"There's something _big _out there, Captain!" Andriy responded. "All we have is visual—it looks like some kind of an array!" Finally, the image appeared on the computer screen.

"What the hell _is _that?" Christine whispered, mostly to herself, as she leaned forward to take a closer look. It was an array of some kind, but didn't resemble any alien design that she was familiar with; a central core, roughly cylindrical, with arms jutting out, each one ending in an expansive, flat panel. Bolts of energy were shooting outward from the core, all on a single vector.

But not in the direction of the stricken starship.

"Captain, these sensors might be malfunctioning," Andriy cautioned. "Hell, they _have _to be malfunctioning. Or the computer, or something." The damage was severe enough to make it a likely possibility. "The navigational computer says we're out on the ass-end of the Delta Quadrant."

_Let them be wrong. _"How far?" Christine asked.

"Seventy thousand light-years, give or take. It sure beats Mr. Toad's Wild Ride."

_Seventy…thousand? That can't be right. That's impossible._

"Captain!" It was Ch'ang again, edging near panic. "I'm getting a data feed from engineering. The warp core's overloading!"

_One thing at a time, Christine. _"What are they doing about it?" she demanded, shifting over to take a look for herself.

"There's no sign of activity at all, sir."

Christine closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and counted to three before speaking. "I'll head down to engineering. Ch'ang, get down to sickbay, see what's going on. Andriy—"

Shevchenko's voice was muffled as he pulled on his breathing mask. "I'll check the bridge for survivors."

...

Engineering was twelve decks down, the turbolifts were out, and several access tubes were blocked.

She made it in five minutes.

"What's the warp core pressure?" Christine shouted, jogging in through the main entrance. The doors, ordinarily doubling as a blast wall, were jammed open; gases were flooding outward, and the air temperature was dropping precipitously. Given the number of low-level fires, the diagnosis was simple: there was a rupture, probably a massive one, somewhere in the reactor coolant lines. Pressurized cryogenic gas was venting directly into engineering.

"Twenty-one hundred kilopascals!" Christine didn't recognize the voice—muffled as it was by smoke, gas, and a hundred alarms—but she followed it through the hazy air, side-stepping a flaming pile of debris along the way.

"Vent the core!" she ordered, finding the person on the other end; the curly, reddish hair identified him as Joseph Carey, one of the assistant engineers. _Good enough, _Christine decided, realizing that the chief himself probably lay somewhere on the deck. _That is, if he hasn't been—_

"Sir!" Carey shouted back, seeing Christine in the haze. "If we vent at these pressure levels, we won't be able to reinitialize the reaction!" The large man stood, half-crouched, clutching his left arm firmly in the pit of his stomach.

"One problem at a time, Mr. Carey!" she barked back, wishing the chief was there; engineering was not her strength, and she was wielding only common sense in overriding a skilled engineer. "We don't have a choice—we have to stop the reaction!"

"Aye, sir!" Carey responded.

...

Sickbay resembled a battle zone.

Still in the corridor outside, Alexander Ch'ang found himself dancing between crackling plasma fires burning inside bulkheads, his feet treading on the shattered screens. It was hot, it was venomous, it was chaotic; and yet, steeling his nerves, Alexander ran inward, holding his arms aloft to shield his face from the green flares erupting on either side.

A loud _wumphf _sounded before him, and instinctively Alexander hit the deck, cringing only slightly as red-hot dregs singed his uniform and naked hands. Even in the heat, he could feel the incinerating force of the fireball spreading rapidly overhead, scorching its way through the corridor; and when the moment passed, he was on his feet again, dashing into the open doors of sickbay.

Nothing was familiar.

Bodies were crashed on the floor, others slumped over shattered medical beds, many charred and blackened beyond recognition. Banks of computer monitors, once ringing the entire compartment, had exploded, leaving behind a seething ring of green fire; and even as Alexander was processing it, the walls of the doctor's office exploded outward, showering the room with shards of transparent aluminum.

Grimly, Alexander punched open an emergency bulkhead, pulling out hazmat gauntlets and an extinguisher. Pointing the nozzle, he yanked the pin, instantly dousing the office under several centimeters of emulsifying foam.

"Computer!" He shouted overhead, wondering if any audio pickups still functioned. "Initiate Emergency Medical Holographic program." As he said the words, he cringed, expecting to get no response.

"Please state the nature of the medical emergency." The calm, even tone nearly made Alexander jump, and he spun around, nearly colliding with the balding, black-haired male. "Um, l-look around," Alexander stammered, beyond perplexed as to why the most delicate equipment in sickbay was apparently the only equipment still functioning.

"Ah." The EMH surveyed the scene quickly and dispassionately. "May I assume that the rest of the ship is in a similar condition?"

"Y-yes," Alexander replied.

"And status of the medical crew?"

"I th-think you're it," Alexander answered.

"Of course," the hologram answered wryly. "Two doctors, ten nurses, a dozen cross-trained medics, but they expect _me _to do everything. Never mind." As he spoke, the EMH was on the move, checking bodies for pulses and respiration. "I require a tricorder."

"Yes, sir," Alexander answered. _(Did I just call a hologram "sir"?)_ He had little idea of where to look, but the task was made easier by the sheer lack of intact storage compartments.

"A replacement must be requested as soon as possible," the doctor went on, moving rapidly about the room. "I am programmed only as a triage physician."

"Uh, we may be stuck with you for a while. _Sir._"

"Oh." The EMH appeared to be momentarily discomposed. "There's no need for concern, Ensign. I'm an excellent doctor."

...

"Warning." The computer's voice was fractured and garbled, lacking its normally-precise diction. "Warp core microfracture. Breach imminent."

"I know," Christine growled. "Open the magnetic constrictors!"

"Aye, sir!" Carey shouted, his voice fading as he ran. "Emmet, double-check the vent nozzles!"

"Confirmed open!" The reply came from an anonymous voice, somewhere behind a raining cloud of ash.

A loud clang ricocheted through engineering. "Constrictors are open!" Carey bellowed. "Pressure is—falling fast! Emmet, flush it out!"

"Aye!" Christine waited tensely until she heard the next comment. "Reactor's flushed clear!"

The captain sank back, in relief and in defeat: the ship was temporarily saved, but they had just jettisoned their fuel.

"Reports," Christine York announced, slumping back with weary relief into the cushioned chair. Ten hours had passed—ten hours of chaos and frenzy as the surviving crew sought to save their comrades and their ship—but now, Christine was ready to declare their efforts a limited success. The crisis was, at least, stabilized.

...

"I have the preliminary list of casualties, sir," Ensign Ch'ang offered, mirroring the captain's weariness. The young man was less than a week into his first tour of duty. "Twenty-nine crew are dead, including the first officer, chief engineer, and chief medical officer. Thirty-three more are confined to medical care, leaving seventy-nine able-bodied crew."

Christine swore silently at the news. Nearly half of her people were dead or seriously injured—including the prime of her command staff, her closest friends aboard the _Fortitude…one thing at a time, _she reminded herself.

Joseph Carey straightened up, favoring his left arm; it was held immobile by an old-fashioned sling. "Engineering reports that we are stabilized, sir," he said, and Christine silently thanked him for his professionalism. "We do, however, need to put into drydock for systematic repair."

"And our fuel status?" Christine asked.

"Our deuterium supplies are more than sufficient, but we're out of anti-deuterium." _In other words, _the captain recognized, _we're dead in space. _Without anti-deuterium, they couldn't reach warp speed. _We don't even have enough fuel to get to the fueling station._

"Very well. What else do we know?" she asked, looking around at the rest of her makeshift staff. Veronica Stadi—injured, but mobile—and Andriy Shevchenko rounded out the group. Shevchenko's presence indicated just how bad off they were.

"For what it's worth, Captain, I've confirmed our stellar cartography readings," Andriy answered slowly. "There's no error. We really _are _on the far side of the galaxy. At straight warp, we're looking at just over nineteen years. Realistically…forty, maybe fifty years."

"Okay." Christine steepled her fingers in front of her face, trying to mask her uncertainty with an air of thoughtfulness. "What else do we know?"

"We've been unable to get any sensor readings from inside the array," Veronica answered. "But the sensors are not fully functional."

"We do have one piece of good news," Andriy added with an askew smile. "We've located the _Tom Joad. _She's in the vicinity of the array, apparently derelict."

Carey leaned forward with interest. "What kind of readings do you have? If there's any anti-deuterium on board…"

Andriy shrugged. "We can't tell," he answered. "But it's worth checking out."

"But, sir," Veronica countered, "the array should be our target."

Christine's eyebrows shot up simultaneously. "There's no proof that the array brought us here, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir," Veronica acknowledged. "But no amount of anti-deuterium is going to get us back to Federation space anytime soon. The array may not be the answer, but it's the only lead we have."

"I'd like to know what we're dealing with first," Christine responded. The idea of charging in blind made her uncomfortable—_and reasonably so, _she thought.

"Sir," Carey said, chiming in, "I'm with Lieutenant Stadi on this one. It'll be days before our sensors are fully operational—and we have no idea if they'll be able to penetrate that array. Our best option is to go in with a shuttlecraft, garner whatever we can from its sensors, and then board the array."

"Alright." Christine rubbed her temples for a second, failing to relieve the dull pain behind them. "Lieutenant Carey, pull together a mixed engineering-security team, and visit the _Tom Joad. _Lieutenant Stadi, Ensign Ch'ang, you'll join me at the array." The other officers took the captain's lead as she pushed her chair back, signaling that the conference was at an end.

As Christine turned to leave, Andriy caught her by the doorway. "Captain, I'd like to accompany you to the array."

"What for, Mr. Shevchenko?" she asked, surprised by the request.

"Quite frankly, Captain…I don't like leaving my fate in the hands of others. No offense intended, of course."

Christine nodded. "And if you board the _Tom Joad, _you might end up dead."

"Something like that, Captain."

Christine sighed in resignation. "Alright, Mr. Shevchenko. You're with me—but plan on making yourself useful."

...

"Captain, I think we're back in Kansas," Andriy opined as the team materialized, unwillingly, in the middle of a large wheat field. Overhead, the sky was a bright blue; and the tassels spread out like a sea, unending waves of gold in the warm breeze.

_How does he know that I grew up in—_Christine winced.

A moment earlier, her team had been in the shuttle, approaching the core of the array, subjecting it to close-up sensor scans and surveillance; but the massive structure was opaque to their artificial eyes, revealing little of its innards but a faint energy bleed.

Then they were here—in Kansas.

The team was standing in a dry, dirt path, winding its way through the fields of wheat, just a short distance from a small acreage at the heart of the farm; up ahead, only a minute or so away, Christine could clearly see a large, clapboard farmhouse sitting in the center, with several barns and sheds around the perimeter.

"Ensign?" she said quietly, directing an implied question to Ch'ang.

The young man had his tricorder out, scanning their surroundings for any sign of an explanation. "Sir, there's no indication of stable matter," he reported, turning about for a full 360°. "It appears to be some sort of holographic projection."

"Curious," Christine murmured. "Are we inside the array?"

"I, ah, can't tell, sir."

"Captain!" It was Shevchenko, pointing towards the farmhouse.

A middle-aged woman, her portly build wrapped in an apron, was coming down the veranda carrying a tray. "Hullo there!" the woman called out, clearly looking at the _Fortitude'_s away team. "Come up here. Come on, now!"

_Here goes nothing, _Christine told herself, tensing up as she stepped forward; at best, it was a calculated risk, but there was a chance that this—person—up ahead could provide some answers. "Veronica?" she asked softly as they walked, making their way up the path.

The Betazoid lieutenant required no more direction to understand the question. "She's not real, Captain," Stadi replied equally softly. The two women clustered together more tightly. "I'm feeling several minds—low-level, as if they're in deep states of unconsciousness. There's also a…a broader mind, sir. Far more alien. I can't describe it any better."

"The builder—operator—of the array?" Christine queried, hazarding a guess.

Veronica shook her head. "I have no idea, Captain."

"Oh, you poor things!" the matron exclaimed. The _Fortitude_'s team had reached the clearing, and the kindly woman came forward to meet them. "You must be tired from your long walk! Come on and sit down and rest awhile." She spoke with a beaming smile and happy voice. "Have a cold drink, hmm?"

"No, thank you," Christine replied politely. It was tempting—she hadn't eaten all day, and the proffered pitcher of frosty lemonade came with an offer of thick sugar cookies—but prudence seemed to be in order. "My name is Christine York. I'm the captain of the Federation starship _Fortitude._"

"Ah!" Their hostess was positively beaming. "How exciting for you! Come, come, we must introduce you to the neighbors. It's not every day that we get such a—such an exciting guest!"

"No, really," Christine demurred quickly. "That's not—" The soft roar of conversation cut her off, and Christine spun around, surprised by the sudden appearance of a dozen farm-clad visitors. _Where did they __come__ from?_

"Glad to see you!" one of the newcomers exclaimed, while another pressed his hand into Ch'ang's; another enthusiastically greeted Stadi, who nearly pulled away in surprised discomfort. "Let's have some music!" an older gentleman shouted, and a banjo came from nowhere, launching into a footloose melody.

...

For his part, Andriy was already dancing with a rather attractive young lady. "When in Rome!" he called out to the captain, catching her questioning glance.

"I thought we were in Kansas!" she rejoined.

"Here, you must be hot!" The matron bustled towards Christine, carrying the pitcher and a glass. "Come, now, it's fresh! Well, as fresh as you can—never mind, it's delicious! You must try some!"

"No, thank you," Christine repeated sternly. _There's a possibility—_the matron was part of the holographic projection; _but… _"Can you tell me why we're here?" she asked, wondering if the matron could provide an out-of-character answer.

"For the welcoming party, of course!"

"And _who _are we welcoming?"

"You! My, my, you've been out in the sun too long—here, have a nice, cold cup of lemonade!"

"'Zander, is this the first time you've ever been on a farm?" Andriy asked his companion as the two strolled around the perimeter of the house. Ch'ang was moving with exaggerated caution, as if terrified of scuffing his polished duty boots.

"No, I—did you call me _'Zander_?"

"What else should I call you?" Andriy replied flippantly; but his mind was on a more serious track as he altered their path, approaching a barn.

"How about _sir_?" Alexander sputtered, hopping along. "I am your superior officer!"

"Oh, sorry, _sir._" Andriy's grin was more teasing than sincere. "You notice that this is the only barn with its doors closed?"

"I—hey, it is," Ch'ang answered, looking around quickly. "What do you make of that?"

"When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time around Starfleet installations," Andriy remarked. He ran his tricorder over the door, looking for a lock. "And I learned that the only doorways worth entering are those that are closed. Here we go." Apparently satisfied, Andriy slipped the scanner into the holster, raised his right leg, and slammed his foot into the wooden door.

Ch'ang jumped back, startled.

"Oh, there's nothing in there but a big ol' pile of hay!" The attractive young lady seemingly appeared from nowhere, inserting herself between the two men and the now-gaping entrance to the barn. "It's _boring_! Come on, let's go see the duck pond!"

Andriy grinned, unable to resist the temptation. "Oh, I'm always up for a good romp in the hay," he answered. Grabbing her roughly about the waist, he picked her up and carried her past the threshold.

Ch'ang followed behind, his tricorder up and scanning. "Whoa," he whispered.

"There's nothing in here!" the girl exclaimed, more vociferously. "It's just a dark, smelly barn! Hey, why don't we go get some deviled eggs?"

"What is it, 'Zander?" Andriy looked to his companion, virtually ignoring the projection of the girl.

"Power readings are spiking," Ch'ang answered. "I'm also reading some kind of matrix-processing device—we must be getting close to the holographic generator." He peered at the readouts again. "I'm getting humanoid lifesigns behind the back wall!" he gasped in surprise. "Andriy, I bet it's the missing Maquis!"

The young lady disappeared into nothingness.

"The hell?" Andriy exclaimed softly as the entire edifice disappeared around them, leaving behind only the four members of the away team. From the rural, timeless qualities of Kansas, they had shifted instantly into the high-tech future; in the blue lighting, a corridor stretched out in front and behind, never changing its path but disappearing in the distance. Shaped as a hexagon, averaging at least three meters in width, every wall covered with panels and alien readouts.

And along both sides, on slabs extending outward from the walls, were bodies.

"Mr. Shevchenko?" Christine whispered, stepping to the front of the foursome.

"Over there," he replied, pointing a couple meters down the corridor. "That's Ma-chú-na-zhe. Sa'awek is over there," he added, pointing again. "That one there—with the ripples on her forehead—that's DeVora Juarez." There were at least a dozen more that were immediately recognizable as Federation races.

The away team promptly disappeared in a swirl of white.

...

Christine came to in the _Fortitude_'s shuttle bay.

Lying on the deck, she sat up quickly, then slowly; a powerful wave of nausea threatened to knock her senseless. She closed her eyes for a moment, refusing to move, until the bile subsided and her balance stabilized.

"York to—to bridge," she called out, uncertain if the main bridge was manned and functioning.

"Carey here," a pleasant voice replied. "It's good to hear you, Captain."

"Lieutenant, haven't you left yet?" Christine answered, furrowing her brow in confusion.

"Sir?" Carey seemed equally confused. "We left two days ago, Captain. We returned about twenty hours ago."

It was Veronica Stadi who caught on first. "Lieutenant, how long ago did _we _leave?"

"About the same time," came the response. "Two days ago."

Christine sighed deeply, but elected to let it go. _Odd things happen in space, _she reminded herself.

Andriy's voice cut in with worry. "Computer, locate Ensign Ch'ang."

Christine's head spun around, belatedly taking a count of her away team. _One. Two. Three. Shit. _ Ch'ang was not present.

"Ensign Ch'ang is not on board," the computer answered, its voice still somewhat garbled.

Christine jumped to her feet. "Lieutenant Carey, is the bridge operational?" she demanded, already dashing across the shuttle bay.

"Yes, sir," the engineer answered, then added with alacrity: "The _Tom Joad _is powering up its impulse drives."

"Tractor them," Christine ordered as she ran, her two crewmates hot on her heels. "I'll be there momentarily."

**«ɵ»**

With two days in the bank, the damage control and repair teams had performed a serviceable job on the bridge, likely giving priority to the nerve hub of the starship. It was far from shiny—several computer screens were still missing, the operations console was completely removed, and the carpet bore numerous stains of ground ash and debris—but it was _functioning_. At least, if blinking lights were any indication.

"What's their status?" Christine asked promptly, exiting the front turbolift. An ad hoc crew of non-command officers were manning the various stations, with Carey acting as the makeshift commander.

"We have the Maquis ship tractored, sir," Carey answered, meeting York halfway across the lower bridge. "We were also successful retrieving their anti-matter, Captain. They have no fuel remaining for their warp drive."

_Excellent, _Christine thought, noting that the assistant chief engineer was stepping up admirably in the face of chaos. Nonetheless, she could find few options at her disposal. "Hail them," Christine ordered, hoping that something would develop.

"One moment, Captain," Veronica Stadi answered, then: "On audio only."

Christine nodded and cleared her throat before speaking. "Commander Na-zhe," she called out boldly. "This is Captain York of the starship _Fortitude._"

A long, agonizing moment passed before a response came. "This is Na-zhe," a suspicious voice answered. "How do you know my name?"

Christine mentally reprimanded herself for offering too much, too early. "We _were _on a mission to find you," she replied, emphasizing the past tense. "However, one of our crewmen is missing. "Was he transported back to your ship by accident?"

"Transported back?" Ma-chú-na-zhe replied in confusion. "No, none of your crew is on our ship."

_They must have been unconscious the entire time, _Christine realized, perplexed by the inconsistency. "Then, Commander," she called out again, "how about your crew? Are they all accounted for?"

This time, a longer moment passed before the Maquis commander answered. "No. One of my people is missing."

"It sounds as though we have a common problem," replied, silently hoping that her counterpart would see it the same way. "I think it makes sense to pool our resources to solve it. Don't you?"

Silence again reigned over the comm channel, allowing Carey a chance to whisper a query in the captain's ear. _What help might they be?_

_I don't know, _she whispered back. _One step at a time._

And two humanoid figures materialized in the center of the _Fortitude_'s bridge.

The first, despite the rough dress of a rogue colonist, was immediately familiar, and Christine couldn't help expressing a sigh of relief to see the bronze skin, the shaggy blonde hair, the upswept corners of the ears, and the unmistakable aloofness of the Vulcan face. Even dressed in rags, she would have recognized her chief tactical officer and undercover operative; but Sa'awek, to his credit, dutifully maintained the ruse of being an outsider.

Christine recovered her composure quickly, but fortunately, it was not necessary; for the second man, resembling the pictures of Ma-chú-na-zhe, was focused instead on another person. The Maquis commander and Starfleet deserter was a large man, broad of chest but without paunch; his thick black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and two nearly-black eyes were framed by the rusty-colored skin of his Native American forebears.

But the glare of his gaze was focused intently on Andriy Shevchenko.

"I should've known," Na-zhe snarled angrily, shifting his weight into a ready stance. "How much are they paying you, _Shiitake_?"

"Perhaps we should speak somewhere in private," Sa'awek suggested, shifting his own body to partially block the Maquis commander. "Is your ready room operational, Captain?"

"Yes, it is," Christine hastened to add, unbalanced by the raw anger shooting past her. "This way, gentlemen."

...

"Overconfidence is a trait of fools, _Captain _York," Ma-chú-na-zhe observed facilely as he sat down in a plush chair. "You greet me with my sworn enemy…and then bring me into a closed room, with no guards, without disarming me." A curved Klingon disruptor pistol was visibly strapped to Na-zhe's belt. He stroked his chin with a finger, as though debating his options.

"I'm safer here than you realize," Christine countered wryly, still feeling anything but overconfident; her feet were twitching behind the visual shield of her desk but the return of her trusted comrade had notably eased the ball of tension that threatened to rend her stomach in two.

Sa'awek turned about in his own chair to face Na-zhe more directly. "I should inform you," he remarked, "that if you take any offensive action against Captain York, I will defend her."

Na-zhe raised his eyebrows, the only indicator that he had suddenly realized the severity of his own miscalculations. "I should've known. I've never heard of a Vulcan that doesn't lie."

"Be that as it may," Christine replied sharply, "we have a common problem, Commander. I think it's in both our interests to work together."

"Do we, Captain?" Na-zhe answered. "And can I safely assume that it was you who boarded my ship and stole our fuel?"

"You don't know where we are, do you?" Christine responded softly, the realization coming to her suddenly. "What—what do you remember?"

Na-zhe shrugged. "We were in the Badlands," he answered. "Evading a Cardassian warship—quite successfully, I might add. Something knocked us unconscious, and I woke up a minute ago on my ship. I have noticed that we're no longer in the Badlands," he added.

Christine swore to herself before responding. "That was over a week ago, Commander," she replied. "We were sent to find you, and apparently encountered the same spatial phenomenon that you did. It transported us _here._"

"Where _is _here?" Na-zhe queried warily.

Christine wanted to ease the blow, but couldn't find a way. "We're in the Delta Quadrant," she answered. "The far edge, in fact. We're about seventy thousand light-years from Earth."

"I see." To his credit, Na-zhe barely flinched. "And that—mechanical monstrosity out there?"

"The array," Christine specified, confirming the reference. "We were able to board it—momentarily. We found you and your crew, all apparently unconscious. Then the array returned us to the _Fortitude._"

"Less an officer," Na-zhe remarked. "And it presumably returned my crew at the same time. Less a crewmember."

"Yes." Christine leaned forward, steepling her fingers before her. "Whatever our quarrels back home, Commander, we share a common interest in retrieving our missing crew and returning to familiar space. I'm willing to set aside those differences for the duration of this—mission."

"And when we return?"

"We'll have to figure that out when we get there, Commander," she answered gingerly.

"And if we don't cooperate?"

"I might arrest you and your crew," Christine replied. "Or I may be forced to leave you here."

"With no fuel," Na-zhe remarked. "That's hardly sporting, Captain." He glanced back at the door before continuing. "I have one condition. I want Shevchenko."

"When we return," Christine answered without flinching, doubting that she could truly honor the offer. "So do I have your agreement?"

Na-zhe nodded. "Until we return, Captain," he confirmed.

...

_He's regaining consciousness._

_That is good. He has been asleep for too long._

_How do you feel?_

_How do I feel?_ Alexander reflected on the question, unsure where it came from; planted in his mind, unspoken, it came through like a wave pounding upon the rocks and then retreating into placid stillness.

_Where am I?_ Alexander opened his eyes slowly, as the first spoken words scratched his throat. He was lying on his back, he was certain; staring upward, the white ceiling overhead was partially flooded with the glow of bright lights and anti-septic sheen. The odor, too, was one of hygienic; astringent biochemicals and to purify the room of any disease.

_It's a medical chamber, _he thought, and nearly leapt from his resting place when a face appeared above him. At first glance, it looked like a cheap knockoff of an Ullian; but has Alexander watched, the face would go blurry for a fraction of a second before re-stabilizing, as if semi-transparent gas.

_Where am I?_

_Please don't try to move yet, _the second voice answered, from somewhere beyond his line of view; it was softer, gentler, as if feminine. _You are very ill._

_No I'm not, _Alexander answered, shifting himself into a sitting position. The room was white and shiny, almost to the point of blinding him; on another bed, a couple meters away, lay another patient. Her body was svelte and slender, and her forehead was noticeably wrinkled with what appeared to be half-formed Klingon crests. Unconscious, she was clad in a simple white robe, fastened about her with a rope.

Alexander raised his hand, and froze with alarm.

On his forearm was a malevolent growth. Panicked, he flung his arm away, as if he could shake it off; but it was still there, erupting from within. His other arm was clear of any similar growth, but a dull pain on his chest—

"No!" His companion leapt from her bed, twirling about and slamming an open palm into the alien's face. As she moved, her robe flew open, revealing a very naked and very human body underneath; but Alexander, a twenty-two-year-old male, barely noticed it.

Her palm seemed to travel several centimeters _into _the alien's face before the alien staggered backward, his head again blurry as if gas disturbed by the passage of a physical object.

The patient staggered backward in shock and alarm, delivering herself straight into the arms of the second alien being, who pressed a handheld device against the patient's neck; and the woman slumped downward, unconscious.

...

"We've designated the star system as S/D 0001," Sa'awek remarked, not bothering to consult the data padd in front of him as he spoke; the information was filed away, perhaps permanently, in his mind. "The third planet is the target of the energy pulses."

From the remaining Starfleet crew, Sa'awek, York, Stadi, and Carey were gathered in the conference room, having been afforded several hours since Sa'awek's return for the Vulcan to review the fragmented sensor data on the alien array; Na-zhe, and Na-zhe alone, represented the Maquis contingent in the Delta Quadrant. "The targeting apparatus of the array quite precise," Sa'awek added unemotionally. "The pulses are hitting a fixed belt around the planet. It is a moving object a light-year away; even the best Starfleet technology is not this accurate."

_Just what we need, _Christine reflected inwardly. _Another example of the array's technological advantage. _"Do we have any indication of what they are?" she asked. "Of what their purpose is?"

"A little, sir," Carey answered. "They don't appear to be doing any damage to the planet. The _logical _theory is that the pulses are intended as a simple transfer of energy."

Sa'awek gave the engineer a bemused, sideways glance. "According to our long-distance scans, the planet in question is borderline class-M."

"What's the connection?" Christine asked, then chastised herself. "_Is _there a connection?"

"We simply don't know," Carey replied. "Captain, we would have to leave the array and do orbital scans of the planet.""Captain, I do believe that this is the most logical course of action," Sa'awek added flatly. "Or subsequent attempts to re-board the array have not been successful. We must gather more information where we can."

"And a light-year isn't that far away," Na-zhe noted. "If something happens, we can still be back at the array within a few hours."

"Very well." Christine couldn't help but feel suddenly weary. "Set a course at our best speed. I want some answers, people."

...

_(Laa, daa, laa, daa, la-da-la-da-la-da…)_

For the patient, there are few places more boring than a hospital room.

Especially one that is sealed shut.

Alexander Ch'ang sat on the side of his bed, dangling his feet back and forth in rough approximation of a beat while running nonsense syllables through his head. He had been alarmed, at first (_okay, I was a little scared, too.)_ There was nothing to rattle one's nerves like being abducted on your first mission _(and sealed in a locked room with a half-Klingon, half-human hybrid)_, but as the hours passed, slowly and methodically, the state of tense anxiety had dulled somewhat, replaced by the dullness of unending monotony.

Until his companion came awake with a sudden start, nearly leaping off her bed with a growl.

"It's okay!" Alexander said quickly, raising his hands in caution and protection _(is she going to kill me? She's a Klingon—I don't know!) _"It's okay!" he repeated, hoping that his voice was soothing.

"Who are you?" she snarled. Curly tangles of long, black hair flew about her head with fury.

"Ch'ang. Alexander Ch'ang. I'm, uh, I'm an ensign on the Starfleet ship _Fortitude._" His thoughts raced for anything else to say. "We were taken from the Badlands, just like you." _(Am I allowed to tell her that? Or is that confidential information? Am I going to be court-martialed?)_

"What are you _talking _about, Starfleet?" she hissed in confusion, spraying the young man with acidic spittle.

Alexander's throat was beginning to close up. "We were in the Badlands, looking for you, and—"

"You were looking for us?" The woman snorted with ire. "Now that you've captured me, what do you plan to do?"

"Yes, you're my prisoner," Alexander retorted wryly, moving quickly to duck under the flying fist; his diving move rolled him off the back of his bed, slamming into the floor. Easing himself onto his back, Alexander clutched his shoulder in pain.

The hybrid's head appeared, hovering, over him. "Some prison warden you are," she snarled. "Tell me the _truth, _Starfleet: you're a prisoner here too, aren't you?"

"Yes," Alexander replied through clenched teeth. Reaching to the bed for support, he pulled himself upward, staggering as he went. "We're both trapped in here." _(Should I have told her that? Did I just admit that I'm powerless? But it's not like my bluff was working. I remember this from class. What was the protocol?)_

With a running growl, the woman threw her body into the door, but the alloy sheeting didn't budge.

"Hey, hey, calm down there!" Alexander exclaimed worriedly. _(Don't make them angry with us!)_

"Calm down?" Throwing a fist into the alloy, she recoiled backward, staring at the malignant growth in her wrist. "What are these things _growing _on us?" she roared, clawing at it with the nails of her other hand. "What are they doing to us?"

"Hey!" Alexander nearly shouted this time. "Do you want them to sedate you again?"

The woman snarled again, exhaling her venom. "You're right, of course, _Starfleet,_" she retorted. "Of course, you always are. High and mighty Starfleet, you're never _wrong._" At last, she breathed deeply. "So get us out of here, _Starfleet._"

"Uh, of course," Alexander replied, without a clue of what to do. "Hey, do you have a name?"

The woman nodded. "DeVora. DeVora Juarez. Before you ask, my mother is Klingon. My father was human."

"Ah. I've, ah, never met someone like you before." _(I sound like a tool!)_

The opening doors saved Alexander from his embarrassment.

Within a moment, he recognized the newcomers as the medical team from earlier; both were draped in off-white robes that covered the body and hung about the head, leaving only the face exposed to sight. Roughly familiar, Ch'ang could easily make out a mouth, a nose, and a pair of eyes; but there was something _different, _somehow, about the alien faces…almost as if they were incomplete.

"I hope you're feeling better," the taller one said. "I know how frightening this must be for both of you, but I'd like to assure you that we mean you no harm."

_That's it, _Alexander realized as he watched the alien speak. The doctor's face was _hazy._

"Why are you holding us here?" DeVora snarled. She had stepped backward, but not in cowardice; the woman was primed for combat.

"You are not prisoners," the second alien answered. "In fact, we did not even bring you here. You were sent to this room by another, so that we can watch over you."

"Then—" Alexander pointed to the open doorway. "Are we free to leave?"

"As long as you are not violent, you have free range of the Warren," the first alien replied. Clutching a stack of fabric, he held it up towards the patients. "However, for both our sakes, I've brought some clothes for you to change into."

"And what are these?" DeVora growled, holding her wrists up to show the growths.

The alien doctor may have been uncomfortable—it was hard to tell. "We really don't know," he admitted. "You arrived that way."

"This—" the doctor spread his gloved hands majestically. "This is the Warren."

_This is almost as amazing as Starfleet Headquarters, _Alexander admitted, certain that nothing could match the central Starfleet campus. _But this_…it was a feat of engineering, and a feat of artistry. The central cavern was easily several kilometers wide, with a gentle, dome-shaped ceiling several hundred meters overhead. Scaffolding latticework wrapped its way around the walls, but no support beams jutted upward from the floor to hold up what must have been immense weight.

And it wasn't _dark._ They were underground—Alexander had deduced that much, although he had little idea beyond that—but the "sky" was bright and blazingly lit. The scaffolding—indeed, all of the structural materials—were made in pure, often shiny, white; in the shadowed areas, where the overhead light was blocked, was the soft glow of unseen lighting, illuminating every nook and cranny of the Warren with powerful ambience.

"Our society is subterranean," the doctor was explaining as they approached the edge of the deck. Projecting into the cavern from the side wall, the vantage point provided a stunning vista of the underground Warren, and even DeVora had to stop in astonishment. Below them, sprawling across the floor of the cavern, was a vast pool of blue water crossed by a network of footbridges, each one decorated in _bas relief_. On several, where one bridge intersected another, parks were built; green plants and colorful flowers in bright, vibrant shades were scattered amid the slow-moving pedestrians; no one was apparently in a hurry.

And around the exterior, tiered decks rose upward from the base, each and every one open to the airy cavern. Against the rear wall, behind the newcomers, were doorways and hatches leading to other rooms; and Alexander presumed that the pattern held true throughout the Warren, with networked tunnels extending deep into the surrounding rock.

"Have you always lived down here?" Alexander asked, somewhat awed by his disbelief; the simplicity of the design concealed its complexity. "Or do your people also live on the surface? Are there any on the surface now? Are you natives to this planet?" _(Stop asking questions, Alexander, you sound like a stammering fool!)_

"Our society developed underground," the doctor replied with patient bemusement. "Traditionally, several groups of us have lived on the surface, but not for many years now."

"Why is that?" DeVora asked, finding herself drawn in to the air of amazement.

"The Warming began," the doctor answered.

Alexander tried to bite his tongue, but couldn't. "The Warming?"

"It was many years ago," the doctor replied. "An ecological catastrophe turned the surface into an irradiated desert. Most of our people already lived down here, in the Warren; so the survivors from the surface came and joined us."

"So why are _we _here?" DeVora pressed.

"The Conservator sent you here."

"The Conservator?" Alexander exclaimed. "Who is that?"

"We don't truly know," the doctor answered serenely. "The Conservator is our protector. It is the Conservator that erected a magnetic field around the Warren, to shield us from the radiation. And it is the Conservator who sends the energy to keep the field functioning." The recurring _whump _of incoming energy packets could be heard in the background.

_That explains where we are, _Alexander thought. It wasn't yet a proven conclusion, but they were likely on the other end of the energy bolts leaving the alien array.

"And us?" DeVora rejoined.

"From time to time," the doctor continued, "the Conservator sends us people. People like you, suffering from your disease."

"These things," Alexander confirmed, pushing the sleeves of his robe up his arm. The malignant tumors had grown.

"Where are the others?" DeVora's was growing in excitement. "Do you mean you can cure us?"

"I'm sorry," the doctor replied sadly. "We have not been able to treat the condition. I'm afraid that it is terminal."

The verdict struck Alexander harshly. "Do you have a way to contact the Conservator?" he asked, fumbling for any chance at hope.

"The Conservator never communicates with us," the doctor answered. "Everything we know, we have had to deduce."

"Is there—is there a way of getting a comm signal out?" _If we can't contact the Conservator, we can at least contact the ship._

"We have never been able to get a signal past the magnetic field," the doctor answered, somewhat contritely. "I'm sorry for you; I truly am. But you will not be leaving here."

...

The chime of the door roused Christine from hard sleep.

"Come in!" she gasped out, almost reactively, dropping her feet from her desk and sitting upright in her chair. One hand went upward, instinctively checking her hair, while the other flipped her monitor back on.

"Do you have a moment, Captain?" Sa'awek asked, stepping partially into the room. He was not alone; beside him was an Andorian _thaan_, wearing the blue turtleneck of the science division. "Ensign Zhevra and I have completed our survey of the third planet, sir."

"Of course, Commander," Christine replied, waving the two men inward. With a moment to recollect herself, she was back in duty mode. "Have a seat."

"Thank you, Captain," Sa'awek replied, taking a seat in front of the captain's desk; the Andorian ensign whispered a much softer "thank you, sir" as he took a seat as well, less at ease in the captain's ready room.

"Can I get either of you a—" Christine's eyes traveled to the blackened remains of food replicator, and she countered herself with a sigh. "Never mind. What have you found?"

Sa'awek leaned forward slightly, speaking first. "The energy pulses appear to be precisely calibrated. Their points of impact form a perfect ring around the planet, coinciding with the planet's rotation. It is quite enviable precision, Captain, beyond the capability of our own technology."

Given what had already occurred, the technological prowess was not a surprise. "Have you determined its purpose?" Christine asked.

"We are not completely certain," Sa'awek admitted. "But it appears to be transferring power to an artificial subterranean magnetic field."

That _was _a surprise.

"You see, Captain," Zhevra added, joining the conversation for the first time, "the planet is M-class. At least, it once was; not even that long ago. But if you look at the surface, there's little life and little water."

"The surface radiation levels are extraordinarily high," Sa'awek continued. "Consequently, we analyzed the atmosphere for the density of ozone."

"And found none," Christine observed, following along with the implications. "At least, next to none. But you think that this was a recent phenomenon?"

"Yes, sir," Zhevra confirmed. The _chaan _was almost bouncing in his seat. "Targeted scans indicated a considerable presence of decomposing biological material in the upper stratum of rock. But it disappears suddenly, suggesting a quick, calamitous event. We need to do closer scans, but it may have been as recent as three hundred years ago."

"And an explanation for this?" Christine asked, flipping through possibilities in her head. Such a rapid collapse of an ozone layer always—_almost always, _she amended—meant an artificial cause.

"We found no evidence of industrial pollution, Captain," Sa'awek answered, ruling out the obvious. "Strangely enough, we found evidence of only scattered, low-level habitation."

"So—" Christine left the word dangling in the air.

"It brings us back to that subterranean magnetic field, sir," Zhevra replied, filling in the gap. "Our sensors are struggling to penetrate it, but what we have suggests the presence of large caverns."

"An _underground _society?"

"That is only one possibility among several, Captain," Sa'awek hastened to add. "We lack the necessary sensor data to even form a theory. However, the magnetic field _would _be sufficient to protect any lifeforms from the solar radiation."

"So, gentlemen…" Christine sighed as she sifted through the report, coming to one inescapable conclusion. "The controlling intelligence on that array is maintaining a subterranean magnetic field, strong enough to thwart not just damaging solar radiation, but also our sensors?"

"That is it in the proverbial nutshell, sir," Sa'awek confirmed.

_So what do we do? _Christine asked herself, sorting through the possibilities. Normally, the next step would be an extended geological survey from orbit, followed by sending multiple teams of specialists down to the planet's surface…and if all went well, in about six months, they would try to breach the magnetic field.

_Six months, _she repeated to herself, isolating the critical element. _We may not have six days…but if we skip the finale, and try to send people past the field…we could very easily kill them._

"Ensign Zhevra." Sa'awek turned about slightly to face his colleague. "Please return to the sensor lab and scan the magnetic field for phase variances."

"Of course, sir." An accompanying nod from the captain sent the young science officer scurrying out the door, and Christine found herself releasing a heavy breath.

"You have no idea how glad I am to have you back, Sa'awek," she groaned, allowing her head to fall into her hands. "You and Veronica are the only senior crew left, and I have to tell you—I can't do this on my own."

"The crew will not benefit from the leadership of an exhausted captain," Sa'awek replied, unperturbed by the remarkable admission. "If you wish, I can take over your command duties for the next several hours, while you rest."

"Oh, you and your damn Vulcan stamina," Christine rejoined, her tone one of exhausted zest. "I suppose you haven't slept for a week."

"I just slept last year, Captain," Sa'awek answered facetiously. His face didn't crack, but the absurdity of his comment revealed the dry jest.

"Well, in that case!" Christine threw up a mock salute, but there was little energy behind it. "What's our current position?"

"We are transiting the system's inner asteroid belt," Sa'awek replied, the trace of jest gone. "Perhaps we should return to the bridge and partake in the view?"

"Captain to the bridge!"

...

Within a moment, the two officers were on their feet, out the door, and on the main bridge.

"Report!" Christine barked sharply, cringing at the odd warbling in the red alert siren.

"There's a small vehicle coming out of an asteroid cluster, sir!" Stadi replied, shouting over the alarm as she scrambled with her equipment.

"On screen!" Christine ordered, wondering momentarily if the viewscreen even worked; but within a second, the image of a boxy, rust-colored freighter appeared at the fore of the bridge. "Can you iden—" She cut herself off with a grimace; _of course we can't identify it. _The captain shifted quickly, hoping to cover her lapse. "Any signs of weapons?"

"I'm reading no energy surges, sir." Sa'awek had not traveled far, his usual post being near the ready room exit. "I believe, however, that we are receiving an attempted communications signal."

"I'm on it, Captain," Veronica called out. "It's definitely a communications signal. I'm replying with our translation protocols, but it'll take a couple minutes for the algorithms to match up."

"Kill the siren," Christine ordered, breathing a sigh of relief. "Commander Sa'awek, what can you tell me?"

"I am reading only a single occupant in the ship," the Vulcan answered, lowering his voice slightly. "Recognizable as a lifeform. The ship itself is marginally larger than a Starfleet runabout, but its level of technology appears to be far below our own." Sa'awek nearly frowned at the discovery. "For better or worse, Captain, it bears no resemblance to the alien array."

_For better or worse, _she repeated to herself, wondering if it could be _both. _

"Captain, I have a connection!" Every head—save Sa'awek's—swiveled to Stadi as she made the announcement. "On your command!"

_Here goes, _Christine told herself, stepping over to the apex of the horseshoe railing. Despite the severity of their situation, she couldn't help but feel a powerful sense of awe; here she was, about to make first contact with a brand-new alien race, in an unexplored part of the galaxy…_sounds like the plot for a holonovel, _she reflected, feeling far less calm than any fictional heroine.

"Captain, start out with small words," Veronica suggested, gently prodding Christine into action.

"Open the channel," Christine ordered. She took a deep breath, and started with small words. "I am Christine York," she announced, using her friendliest voice. It quavered slightly at the beginning before stabilizing. "This is my ship."

It was the blazing whiteness of the being's eyes that caught her attention. "I am Nicotiana," the alien boomed in a profound bass profundo. "Welcome to my room." _Bad translation, _Christine thought, exchanging a darting gaze with Stadi; the communications officer nodded, confirming that the comment should be interpreted loosely.

At first glance, Nicotiana may have been human, but for the alien differences in his physique; a standard, somewhat angular face was colored in a strong shade of golden yellow. Long locks of bleach-white hair covered the top of his head, cascading down the sides and back; bushy white eyebrows mirrored the effect, but could not overshadow the glowing brilliance of his ocular orbs.

Nicotiani seemed to eye her suspiciously. "You're not from around here, are you?" he boomed suddenly. In some unfamiliar gesture, he raised two hands, revealing four fingers on each; each phalange ended with a slender, sharp talon. "It is of little problem, I assure you. The Conservator often brings strangers to our little corner of the galaxy."

"The Conservator?" Christine asked gingerly, trying to avoid revealing too much of her ignorance.

"Yes," Nicotiani boomed. "You did, no doubt, notice the gargantuan array?"

"Yes, we did," Christine answered. "But we haven't met the controlling intelligence yet."

"The Conservator," Nicotiani rejoined. "No one knows what it calls _itself, _of course. But that's what the Lemurians call it."

"The Lemurians?" Christine pressed. "Who are they?"

"You are new, aren't you?" Nicotiani seemed to shake his head. "I'd love to introduce you around, be your guide, but I'm afraid that I'm much too busy."

"We would make it worth your time," Christine replied dryly, hoping that she hadn't just walked into a con artist's trap. "I'm sure we can find a suitable way to compensate you."

...

"Look, I'm sure Captain York is doing everything she can to find us," Alexander Ch'ang stated, hoping to convey his certainty to his unwilling companion; the fresh ensign had no doubt, no doubt at all, that the captain was overturning every rock and every planet in order to find them. All he had to do was remember his Academy training protocols: stay calm.

"What makes you think that any of them are still alive?" DeVora Juarez retorted irritably. The two of them were tucked away in a darkened passageway, branching outward from the central cavern. "And your precious Captain York was only interested in sending _me _to prison." Already trembling, the woman grimaced and doubled over, clutching her arms into her abdomen.

"Should I call for some help?" Alexander asked, alarmed, instinctively reaching out to help her.

DeVora lashed out unsteadily, batting the young man's hand away. "You're a _fool, _Starfleet," she hissed. Stumbling forward, she caught herself, hard, against the far wall.

Neither of them noticed the movement of a figure approaching. "Are you in serious pain?" the newcomer asked, materializing as if from nowhere.

Before Alexander could respond, DeVora was whipping around with a snarl, thrusting the point of her elbow into the newcomer's throat—if the newcomer had been humanoid. Sinking inward instead, as if traveling through mush, her elbow nearly appeared out the rear before DeVora jumped back.

"I know you!" Alexander blurted suddenly. At least, he thought he did; with the fluidity of the aliens' faces, it was hard to distinguish one from another—and it was quite possible that they could mimic the same appearance.

But this one, to appearances, was their nurse. "I came by to check on you," the alien said placidly. Only now did she raise her arms, slowly, as if meaning no harm. "The disease progresses at different rates in different people. I thought it might be time for an injection."

The proffered medicine was no cure; still, as Alexander knew, it offered some relief from the pain. "Perhaps it is," he replied agreeably, and the young man extended arm DeVora watched with unconcealed disgust as the nurse injected the unknown compound into Ch'ang's bloodstream.

"I hope this will help," the nurse added, meaning every word.

"Thank you," Alexander answered, deliberately avoiding the dagger-like stare of his companion. "We appreciate it—_both _of us." He ignored DeVora's snarl. "But what we really need is to reach the surface. If we can contact our own people, they may be able to cure us."

"It is most difficult to reach the surface," the nurse replied.

"But you can?" DeVora joined in suddenly, seizing on the opportunity. "How? Can you show us?"

"It is very dangerous," the nurse answered. "The magnetic field automatically fills in any tunnel through the rock…but several of our people have discovered that there is a slight time lag."

"You mean, if we punch through a new tunnel, we have a window of opportunity before the field cuts it off?" Alexander asked, confident that he was following along.

"Yes," the nurse confirmed. "But the window is only several seconds. And digging a new tunnel requires days, maybe even weeks. I am afraid…you do not have that long."

...

Na-zhe was unaccustomed to looking _up _at an individual.

As the alien emerged from his freighter, itself oversized even in the _Fortitude_'s extended shuttle bay, his true height rapidly became apparent. He easily dwarfed every member of the welcoming party; was, possibly, even taller than a Capellan.

For his height, Nicotiana was a slender man; he wore an open robe made of tanned animal skin over a blue jumpsuit, and at the base of the neck were two golden pins. Otherwise, the most striking feature—and impossible to ignore—was the brilliant glow of his eyes.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Nicotiana," Christine York stated formally, keeping her hands clasped by her waist; anthropological studies had indicated that it was the least offensive stance for the greatest number of species. And she felt little desire to shake the man's taloned hands.

Nicotiana tilted his head slightly. "The word 'Mister' didn't translate," Stadi whispered, directly into the captain's ear. "I think it's fine to just use his name."

Christine nodded slightly in recognition. "Please follow me, Nicotiana," she said, gesturing now towards the large hatchway at the rear of the bay.

"This is quite an impressive ship," Nicotiana boomed, falling into step beside Christine. His head was swiveling about as he took in the size of bay, fully three decks tall. "Few species around here have anything comparable. Tell me, where exactly are you from?"

Christine hesitated for a second as she formulated her response, realizing that 'alpha quadrant' and 'delta quadrant' would not translate. "The far side of the galaxy," she replied, finding the simpler explanation. "About 30,000 light-years on the other side of the galactic core."

"That is quite a journey," Nicotiana observed. "I only know of a few who have been brought further."

"How many different ships _has _the…Conservator brought out here?" Christine asked. According to safety protocol, the hatchway did not open automatically; but Stadi punched in the commands, and the duranium doors hissed open before them.

"Oh, hundreds," Nicotiana mused. He had to duck, just slightly, as they entered the corridor. "I haven't encountered anyone who knows when it began."

"I'm curious," Veronica Stadi remarked, joining in. "You mentioned that the name originates with the Lemurians. Who are they?"

"The Lemurians?" His glowing eyes seemed to be searching every recess of the corridor as they walked. "The Lemurians are the beings on the planet below. The Conservator protects them from harm."

"There are beings on the planet?" Christine responded, shocked by the confirmation of what had been idle speculation. "Our scans didn't reveal any lifeforms."

"Tell me, Christine York," Nicotiana answered, "did your scans reveal the presence of a subterranean energy field?"

"Yes," Christine replied cautiously.

"And were your scans able to penetrate it?"

"No. We only noted the presence of several large caverns."

"The Lemurians reside in those caverns, Christine York."

"Tell me, Nicotiana: do you think the Lemurians might be able to help us find our missing crewmembers?"

"If they can," the alien answered with bemusement, "you would be the first. Just making contact with the Lemurians is nearly impossible."

"We may…have some ideas about that," Christine replied. "My officers have been analyzing the energy field for gaps in the spectrum. We believe that we've found a hole that we can squeeze a transporter beam through."

"A _what_?"

"It's…" Christine stumbled slightly, uncertain of what the alien was familiar with.

"It's a matter-energy convertor," Stadi explained, intervening smoothly. "It takes a material object, converts the object into an energy beam, and changes it back at the targeted point."

"I've heard of such things," Nicotiana boomed with amazement. "But such technology is extremely rare! Christine York, is there anything I could exchange with you for a—_transporter_?"

"We'll have to talk about it," Christine answered wryly, knowing that it wasn't an option. "Do you know anything about the layout of the caverns?" _And that's the problem, _Christine knew—they could thread a transporter beam through the field, but without reliable sensor scans, they might end up materializing inside rock.

"No, I don't," Nicotiana replied ruefully.

_Figures, _Christine told herself. _Yet another brick wall. Rock wall…whatever._

"Commander Sa'awek to Captain York." The hail startled her from the brief reverie. "York here," she replied, tapping her comm badge.

"Captain, long-range sensors indicate a large ship on an intercept course," the tactical chief answered from the bridge. "Estimated arrival time is two-point-three hours."

"What kind of ship?" Nicotiana asked.

"Please repeat, Captain," Sa'awek answered.

Christine couldn't help but smile. "Can you show us a visual, Commander? Pipe it down to—" she halted, looking about to identify the closest screen.

"I have your location, Captain," Sa'awek replied.

In a moment, a black screen in the nearby bulkhead lit up with the firelight of stars. A tiny object was visible in the starfield, but as they watched, it grew in size until it filled the screen.

"That's a Nistrom city-ship, Christine York," Nicotiana boomed, perhaps grimly. "We must get out of here before they arrive."

Christine had little intention of fleeing without getting some answers. "Who are the Nistrom?" she demanded. If the screen was right, the ship was easily twice the size of her own, and perhaps more.

"The Nistrom…" Nicotiana took his time, as if searching for the right description. "They are extremely brutal, at least towards others. They're a nomadic race, but occasionally a city-ship will claim a star system. They defend it, until they've finished extracting the easy resources, and then they move on."

"And they're a danger to us?" Stadi queried, following along.

"They're a danger to _everyone_," Nicotiana answered. "Their technology isn't the most advanced, but they make up for it with raw power. Unless I miss my guess, this is the _Roc'Va._"

"The _Roc'Va_?" Christine parroted.

"Yes, Christine York," Nicotiana replied. "They've tried to claim the planet below."

"I see," Christine responded softly. "And the energy field protects the Lemurians from the—the Nistrom."

"Yes," Nicotiana confirmed. "Without it, the Nistrom would destroy the Lemurians in a moment."

"Hm," Na-zhe grunted thoughtfully.

...

A pair of swept-wing aeroshuttles whizzed overhead, skimming the parched clay by little more than meters.

Beneath them, flying by at dizzying speeds, lay kilometer after kilometer of hardened rock, undisturbed for generations by the pesky presence of greenery clinging to life on the abused, irradiated surface of the planet. Here and there, great canyons plummeted downward, slicing through the bedrock in snaking patterns once sculpted by raging rivers; great spires thrust upward, their strata exposed to the sun, towering over the barren flatlands like sentinels of a far-gone age.

And everywhere, the rock face burned red.

The air was thin, but clear; the water vapors, once forming great clouds in the skies, had disappeared in the aftermath of the Warming. Nitrogen, oxygen, and a dozen less-common elements blazed in the scorching radiation; and as the atmosphere broiled away, the winds disappeared, leaving the thinning skies undisturbed by dust and haze.

_And thankfully, _Na-zhe reflected, _Starfleet's shuttles are climate-controlled. _In addition to the temperature controls, the coated shells of the shuttlecraft deflected the radiation, creating a vastly different environment for the lucky beings within.

The two aeroshuttles were paced apart by a kilometer or so as they raced over the surface, chasing down the targets identified by the _Fortitude _as possible places for transport. They had already inspected three; locations where the caverns were more detectable, potentially susceptible to closer scans by the shuttlecraft, but none had panned out.

And time was rapidly burning away.

Na-zhe watched a timer with growing apprehension as they continued to fly about. The Nistrom city-ship was on its way; their window was closing quickly. They were on their way to another site, but if this one failed as well, it would be time to abandon the effort.

He only hoped that Christine York would have the coldness to understand.

"Come in for landing." He, the captain, and a pilot were manning the first of the two shuttles; on their tail, in the second craft, were Veronica Stadi, Joseph Carey, and a second pilot. The beam-in party would only have four people, assuming they found a place to beam in; with the number of walking wounded among the crew, and the looming threat of the Nistrom, they could ill-afford to spare any more personnel.

Easing back the throttle, the pilot applied braking thrusters, bringing the craft from breakneck speed to a near stop in seconds. Landing with a jarring bang on the unforgiving rock, the twin commanders were out the hatch and in action before the second shuttle had even landed.

Four hands moving in practiced unison, the twin commanders placed the geodesic sensor dome on a piece of flat rock; pitons shot out into the upper stratum to anchor the device as vacuum seals filled in the cracks. "I think we have one!" Na-zhe shouted out as the geologic data began scrolling across the handheld readout. It was, at least, their best option of the four; below them, under a kilometer of scarcely-broken rock, was an open space extending above the energy field.

And the other side looked right. Not too large, not too small, correctly placed to offer access to the promised caverns below.

"Lieutenant Carey!" Christine shouted out, fighting against the shrill drone of the two aerocraft. "Report!"

Squinting his eyes in the harsh sun, Na-zhe located the second craft about a hundred meters distant; beside it, Stadi and Carey were bustling about, transfixing a similar dome to the surface.

"I confirm, Captain!" Carey shouted out, his voice brimming with newfound exuberance. "We have our target!"

"Cross-check the coordinates, and then transfer them to the shuttles!" Christine barked out, looking at Na-zhe and speaking across the comm channel simultaneously; with the coordinates in hand, the foursome would use the shuttle transporters to beam in, while the pilots waited for them on the surface. "Time, Commander Na-zhe?"

A simple stopwatch counted down the minutes on Na-zhe's wrist. "Thirty-two minutes!" he responded. Even with the heat addling his brains, he knew that time was running short; but Captain York showed no signs of turning back as she swung herself back through the hatchway.

_Here's looking down the ol' gullet, _Na-zhe thought grimly as he followed her in.

...

Vulcan composure and Andorian passion could, contrary to legend, co-exist.

"Commander!" Ensign Zhevra called out, pulling the bridge's attention to the port science console. In his excitement, the blue-skinned Andorian didn't even swivel about to face the command circle. "You need to look at this!"

Trusting in the intensity of Zhevra's voice, Sa'awek didn't hesitate before lifting himself fluidly from the command chair and trotting over to the ensign; the timer was counting down steadily in the Vulcan's mind, its pace uninterrupted by the rapid spike in tension among the crew. _Twenty-nine minutes, thirty-two seconds, _Sa'awek knew; give or take a minute for various vagaries.

Little time to be distracted by trivial matters.

"What is it, Ensign?" Sa'awek stated calmly, without a single deep breath for air, as he came about behind the science officer. He scanned the sensor analyzes quickly, gleaning the rough overview; Zhevra was watching the rate and frequency of the energy pulses from the array.

"Here and here, sir," Zhevra reported, pointing physically to the relevant portions of the display. "Beginning at—one-point-eight minutes ago, the pulse frequencies started modulating." He shifted the display to pull up a comparison. "I'm not certain what it is, sir, but the change is significant."

Sa'awek leaned in closer. "Isolate and extract a single pulse," he ordered. Something in the frequency looked familiar, but required closer analysis.

"There, sir," Zhevra answered, amplifying a single pulse until it filled the screen. "Sir, this doesn't make any sense. The new pulses seem to be overloading the receptor nodes. At this rate, it will destroy them in—"

"Soon enough, Ensign," Sa'awek added brusquely. "What logical theories can you form from this data?"

If Andorians had a brow, Zhevra would have knit his. "An equipment malfunction on the array," he replied, thinking as he spoke. "Or else the Conservator is intentionally destroying the receptors."

"In either case, it denotes a significant change of affairs on the array," Sa'awek added, pleased with the answer. "But I believe the latter theory is slightly more likely; an equipment malfunction would more likely than not result in a variable frequency, rather than this precision." It was somewhat slim to hang a theory on, Sa'awek knew, but neither would he reject the opposing possibility.

"Sir, why would the Conservator want to destroy the receptors?" Zhevra asked, perplexed. "If they're sealed, the array can no longer use them…but neither can anyone else," the science officer breathed, finding his own conclusion.

"Precisely, Ensign," Sa'awek replied. "It also prevents the Nistrom from gaining access. And that, in turn, implies that the array's traditional defenses are no longer sufficient."

...

_Twenty-eight minutes, twenty-seven seconds._

They did not materialize in rock.

The four beams of light shimmered for an extra moment before cohering into humanoid forms, then filling out the details of uniforms and flesh that differentiated the appearance of one from another. York sighed with relief as she felt the grip of the transporter beam disappear; she seemed to be in normal order, and her companions appeared the same as before. Time would tell, but at the least, no limbs were out of place.

_But where are we?_ Having only a moment, Christine noted that the foursome had materialized in a rocky chamber, lit with the natural ease of bioluminescence. It was surprisingly spacious, with warm, clean air, slightly on the humid side; and on the walls, dark green moss was sculpted into precise geometric designs.

But they were not alone.

Another being, clad in flowing robes of light gray, complete with gloves and a hood, was present in the mouth of the cavern. _It's almost, _Christine thought, _as if the being had been expecting us_; she had sensed no movement from the solitary figure.

But that was a leap of logic, as Commander Sa'awek would say.

"Welcome." The being's voice was warm and surprisingly mellifluous, exhibiting no signs of shock or discord at the sudden arrival aliens in the otherwise-sealed environment; its softness and descant led Christine to attribute, for the moment, an artificial designation of _she_. "Welcome to the Warren."

"Thank you," Christine managed to say, belatedly clearing the croak from the depths of her throat. First Contact—_true _First Contact, with a completely unknown species—was a rare occurrence, something that the great majority of Starfleet officers would not encounter even once; no volumes of briefing materials, no years of surreptitious anthropological surveys, no opportunity to bring in the practiced specialists.

And time, Christine knew, was severely limited.

"Thank you," Christine restated, recovering her vocal footing as she went. "I'm Christine York, captain of the starship _Fortitude."_ In the corner of her eye, the captain traded the briefest of glances with Veronica Stadi; and a moment later, words appeared in Christine's head. _I can feel their presence, but not their thoughts, _the Betazoid replied. _Translation seems accurate._

"I am Nehesu, of the Lemurians," the native replied. Using her gloved hands, Nehesu eased her cowl back slightly, revealing a strangely-incomplete face; Christine peered at it intently, trying to make sense of the shifting features and semi-transparent membranes. _Are they material? _Christine wondered. _Or energy? Or a mixture, or something else? _

"I assume you've come for the others?" Nehesu asked. The flowing currents of her face reassembled into a smile.

"Yes, we have," Na-zhe answered, giving the awe-struck captain a moment to recover; they had little idea that Ch'ang and Juarez had been moved from the array, _assuming that the lady is referring to them. _"We're missing two crewmembers. One goes by the name 'Alexander Ch'ang.' The other—"

"'DeVora Juarez', no?" Nehesu finished out the description. "We are quite glad that you of come. Perhaps you have the medicine to save them."

...

_Whump!_

"Helm, hard evasive! Tactical, target phasers and fire! Comm, hail them again!" Sa'awek barked out the orders with the implacable calm of his people, showing no anger or fear; only the raised amplification of his voice and the catenation of his words belied the danger that the _Fortitude _was facing.

Time had expired, and the landing parties had not returned.

_Whump! _The starship shuddered again as another volley of energy packets slammed in, nearly knocking the _Fortitude _from its weaving flight path. _The initial assessment, _Sa'awek noted dispassionately as he clung to the arms of the command chair, _was correct. Low on sophistication, high on raw power._

_Whump!_ Heated plasticine showered the bridge, propelled outward by the shockwave of exploding power taps as a port-side bulkhead disappeared in green flames and hazy smoke. Fire suppressants hissed into action, fighting futilely against the green-stained tongues of conflagration.

_Whump! _"Helm, evasive pattern delta-tango!" Sa'awek barked out, no longer able to see the ship's pilot through the clouding air; only the readouts on the arm of the command chair were able to confirm the receipt of the orders, relaying the information as the conn pulled the _Fortitude _about, the drive section whipping about in an artificial tailspin before leaping onto a different vector.

"Commander!" The voice came from behind him, obscured and altered by the vibrant din. "The Nistrom ship is deploying three—no, four small fighters! They're entering the atmosphere!"

_And the two aeroshuttles on the surface are unarmed. _It wasn't conclusive—the Nistrom might not have registered the Starfleet craft, might be deploying the fighters for another purpose—but it was a reasonable assumption.

"Commander!" A voice came from behind again, this one slightly different from the first but still unidentifiable. "Do we have any armed shuttles?"

"We have one!" Sa'awek shouted back, duly registering a response of _"I'm on it!"_ as he turned his focus back to the battle.

_Whump!_

_...  
_

"I must say, you seem remarkably comfortable with our appearance," Christine remarked as they walked, their Lemurian guide leading the human foursome through a chain of caverns and tunnels. "Have you had much contact with other alien races?" _A good time to ask, _Christine berated herself silently.

"We have—not had much contact," Nehesu replied, giving it a moment of thought before responding. "But we are quite familiar with the concept of other alien races. The Conservator has on many occasions sent us patients to care for, from a host of different races. The two you speak of—one is like you, but the other one…" The sentence hung in the open air.

"She's a hybrid," Na-zhe replied, speaking while Christine was still pondering the implications of admitting DeVora's parentage. "One parent was human, like us. The other parent was from a race called the _Klingons._"

"Does the Conservator communicate with you?" Veronica asked hopefully.

Nehesu seemed to shake her head. "The Conservator has never spoken directly to us," the Lemurian representative answered. "Our clerics must interpret the Conservator's subtle signs as best they can. As you may imagine, it is often quite…obscure."

"What do those subtle signs tell you?" Christine pressed.

"Today, they tell us that all is not well," Nehesu answered.

"Why is that?" Christine asked, again impressed by the uncanny openness.

"It is the Conservator who protects us," Nehesu replied. "The Conservator maintains the energy field that protects us from our enemies—from the burning radiation on the surface, but also from the animalistic predators that would seek to take us."

"I was wondering about that," Veronica added slowly. "We've heard about the Nistrom, but their behavior towards you seems to be more _intense,_ somehow."

In the cowl of the Lemurian's hood, a single, glaring eye rapidly formed and unformed. "The Nistrom view us as a resource," Nehesu answered. "A very _valuable resource."_

Christine said nothing, but the chain of inferences was solidifying in her mind:_ the Lemurians were primarily constructed of some form of energy, not matter. And energy is the currency of life._

"For hundreds of revolutions, the energy shield remained, unchanged," Nehesu continued. "But in the last few revolutions, the rate of energy transference has increased noticeably. We have had to construct storage devices for the excess."

"Before now, the Conservator wasn't concerned about the future energy supply," Christine noted, identifying the significance. "But now the Conservator _is _concerned."

Nehesu gave an all-too-human nod. "And the transfers are becoming erratic, as well. Our clerics think that the Conservator is dying."

"How will you maintain the energy shield if the Conservator dies?" Veronica asked. "And once you run out of the stored energy? Can you power it on your own?"

"There was a time," Nehesu admitted, "when our people possessed the ability to do such things. But it is far easier to rely on the Conservator…and over time, we have become dependent. We cannot power the shield on our own."

...

Andriy Shevchenko felt the deck slide out from beneath his feet as he sprinted down the corridor, slamming him face-first into the ceiling—_that can't be good_—and tumbling onto a bulkhead, the heels of his boots crashing through a crystalline screen. The shattered crystals gashed into his legs, ripping through heavy-duty cloth and softer skin, sending a hundred rivulets of pain shooting upward; struggling to suppress it, Andriy clambered to his feet, finding himself standing upright on the bulkhead.

The gyrostabilizers were out.

He grimaced, rejecting the electrical currents urging them to stay still; running down the corridor, he could feel the sharp crystals digging in deeper, the gashes exacerbated by his movement. He gave it no heed as he plunged forward, barely dodging rushing crewmembers and crippled bodies as he ran through the growing haze.

Before him was the target; the doors to the control booth slid open smoothly, a little luck in a chaotic situation. Two crewmembers were inside, awaiting the return of the landing party. "Which shuttle is armed?" Andriy shouted at them, not pausing to identify himself; with the instinct of junior officers, they responded immediately, pointing him to the last aeroshuttle in the bay below.

Dashing across the floor of the bay, climbing the side of the swept-wing fighter, Andriy fell into the cockpit; wincing again with pain as his knees slammed against the sides, forcing crystalline glass to once again shift deeper into his flesh. The harness snapped on quickly, with the windshield clamping down; safely ensconced within, the racket of sirens and screams faded away, providing a respite and a moment of calm.

He had never flown this particular craft; but Starfleet was variations on a design, and Andriy was a born jockey. With a foot on the clutch, he goosed the engines, firing up the powerful jets; the bay doors opened before him, and Andriy was shooting out, riding the explosive thrust of the rockets behind him.

...

"Captain!" Alexander Ch'ang exclaimed excitedly, before snapping into parade posture. "I mean, _sir._"

"At ease, Ensign," York answered wryly, feeling as though they'd had this conversation before. _Besides, _she noted, the young man appeared ready to keel over; his skin was ashen and drooping, with odd welts and sores apparent, and he was wavering noticeably, as if alarmingly light-headed.

"DeVora," Na-zhe added, breaking his first smile since boarding the _Fortitude. _"Have they been taking good care of you? Are they—" Na-zhe used his head to point at their Lemurian host. "Did they _do _this to you?"

DeVora, too, appeared nearly cadaverous; her ruddy skin was a ghastly pale, drawn tight over the sharp protuberances of her endoskeleton. "No," she answered. Attempting to snarl, she could not find the energy; and she sighed miserably instead as she continued. "It's that—I think—it's some—some bloody thing called the 'Conservator.'"

"We've heard of it," Christine noted. "In fact, I think we met it."

"Captain," Veronica murmured, softly but audibly, "we're running out of time."

"Please." Nehesu parted her gloved hands widely. "You should hurry."

"Thank you," Christine offered, feeling more than a little dazed; the whole episode was surreal and rushed, as if little more than the freeze-frames of an exotic dream. She could stay, explore, learn, for many hours and days.

But their time had just run out.

...

It was not remotely even.

The two unarmed aeroshuttles dove and juked their way across the mesas, screaming in protest at the violent treatment as their pilots sought to evade the four Nistrom fighters hot behind them.

The first shot would be critical to even the odds.

Andriy lingered overhead for a moment, hiding himself in the wash of sunlight as he chose his vector. Information was the best weapon; and he scanned the landscape closely, identifying the precise locations of the fighters before tilting the nose of his craft into a sharp dive.

Even with the sealed cockpit, Andriy heard the wind screaming past him as he dove downward, building up unnatural speed as he plummeted. Red rock rose quickly before him, swelling to fill his vision as he counted down calmly, coolly, eating away kilometers in seconds as the altimeter warnings whistled in his ears and the craft began to shake around him.

_Now. _ Swinging the nose upward, he relied on the shifting thrust to pull the fighter from its dive; the red rock skimmed below him, scarcely a hundred meters away from a crashing death. Targeting sensors locked onto his prey, and Andriy smiled grimly as he flew in behind the Nistrom craft, emerging from nowhere on their tails.

_One. Two. _Photonic bolts lashed out from his guns, crossing the gap at the speed of light, each one capable of targeting independently; they slammed into two fighters with raging fury, overwhelming the enemy craft. One disappeared completely, consumed in a growing ball of fire that rapidly expanded outward; minuscule pieces of debris rained downward, smacking into the rock like superheated meteorites. The second pilot desperately twisted his craft, but to no avail; its tail section exploded, and the fighter smashed into the surface, becoming a kilometer-long smear of black on the mesa.

_And we're on, _Andriy thought as the other two fighters wheeled about to confront him. _Show me what you got, you pissants._

...

At last, Christine materialized in the rear compartment of an aeroshuttle.

"Report!" she demanded immediately, moving off the one-person platform to allow room behind her; within a second, the transporter activated again, depositing Na-zhe on the platform. His bulky presence seemed to fill the craft in a way that she never could; but it gave her a sense of relief, as if her backside was absolutely, completely covered.

"There are two Nistrom fighters in the air," the pilot responded promptly. "A Starfleet fighter took down two others."

"Where are they now?" Christine asked. The remainder wasn't difficult to fill in; the aeroshuttle had clearly sustained damage, with several blown conduits, soot-stained carpet, and the sickening odor of burning fibers hanging in the air.

"Over the horizon," the pilot answered. "On the inside, we have a minute of clearance to take off."

"Is everyone out?" Na-zhe shouted from the rear. He caught DeVora as she materialized and fell forward, her legs buckling beneath her.

"Checking—yes, sir!" the pilot answered. "Captain, the _Fortitude _is taking heavy fire!"

_Shit. _As she weighed the options, Christine felt herself freeze for a moment. If they stayed on the surface, the fighters could destroy them—but orbit overhead was no safer. _Clichés be damned, _she thought. _We're not jumping from the pot into the fire; we're jumping from one fire into another._

"Take us out!" she ordered firmly.

...

_I SEE you,_ Andriy thought in a sing-song voice as he cranked his head backward; the enemy fighter appeared on his tactical display as well, but the visual out the rear of his windscreen was far more visceral and useful. The Nistrom hung behind him, off to the left and slightly below, with the second one about a kilometer behind. _I've had enough of your shit._

Without braking, Andriy yanked the nose of craft straight upward and hung tight, ignoring the screaming sounds of stressed tritanium as the fighter shimmied through the air. Sirens went off as the inertial dampeners overloaded and emergency measures deployed, struggling to keep blood flowing to the brain of the berserk pilot.

And to its credit, the Nistrom fighter stayed on Andriy's tail, yielding only a degree or two of angular velocity.

Andriy pulled his craft straight, climbing skyward on the rocketing thrust of his engines as he entered the stratosphere. The thinning air around him provided a stunning vista of the planet below; no clouds obscured the curve of the horizon in the distance, separating the rippling rock below from the rapidly-darkening skies above.

_Time to play, _he told himself, and he tipped the nose straight downward.

The air hollowed past him as he dove downward, and the once-clear sky heated up into fiery reds and yellows. The burning contrails seemed to explode behind him as Andriy jettisoned a small amount of plasma fuel, creating a swelling eruption that obliterated any targeting lock his foe might have had.

Now, swiftly, he leveled the fighter and cut the engines, turning the craft into a fast-moving glider that sliced through the atmosphere, leaving only minuscule disturbance in his wake. Turning into a shallow, twisting dive, he hung silently in the air as two seconds counted past.

_And there you are._ The Nistrom fighter shot downward, right through the ball of flame Andriy had left behind. The enemy craft was diving rapidly, but no terrestrial speed could save it.

Andriy's finger lingered a moment on the trigger as he relished the satisfaction of his win; and then he fired, the photon bolts ripping through the air at luminal speeds, reducing the Nistrom craft to meager pieces.

...

The aeroshuttle shuddered again, buffeted by the near-miss of seething disruptor beams slicing through the sky; once to port, once to starboard, the firing pattern seemed to bracket the shuttle without ever quite striking as the pilot nimbly danced through the air.

Behind the cockpit, Christine, Na-zhe, and the missing Maquis member—_DeVora Juarez, _the captain repeated to herself, imprinting the name with the face—were strapped in to the rear seats, struggling to avoid the extreme vertigo and nausea that hit in wave after wave.

...

Andriy felt the slickness of blood trickling down his legs as he hit the afterburners, hurtling the small Starfleet fighter across dozens of kilometers in mere seconds; the abused machinery within scremed with the effort of preserving the pilot from crushing g-forces. It was far beyond the natural endurance of the human body; but Andriy gritted his teeth, long past the point of turning back, left only with the hope and prayer that the life-saving machinery would not fail.

There was one Nistrom fighter left dogging the tail of the second aeroshuttle with merciless glee; sizzling bolts of energy spat forward from its guns, creating instant bursts of thunder from rent air. The aeroshuttle was dodging the shots, but just barely; as Andriy moved in to visual range, easing his craft overhead, one shot struck home, setting off a small explosion on the starboard wing as over-excited atoms burst apart.

_You're mine, fucker, _Andriy telecast mentally as he eased the pitch control downward. Several kilometers still separated him from the target, but speed would be no issue; rather, he had to apply braking thrusters as he tore downward, the assist of gravity adding to the already-powerful thrust of his rockets. To successfully distract the Nistrom fighter, he had to be _noticed; _shooting past in a blur was of little use.

Targeting carefully, Andriy sliced through the marginal gap separating the two other craft before leveling out, some hundred meters above the surface; and the Nistrom pilot took the bait, unable to resist the taunting provocation from one ace to another.

An old Earth philosopher—_Garfield the Cat,_ Andriy recalled—had once said, "There is never any need to outrun what you can outthink." Disruptor bolts were coming in, fast and furious, from behind; but Andriy simply rode out the blasts, allowing his fighter to shudder naturally as it dissipated unwanted energy. He had a plan, one that possessed the elegance of simplicity and the satisfaction of complete victory.

_Three…two…one…_Andriy counted down the seconds, trusting his own timer over that of the computer; and when time expired, he thrust the control rods straight forward, bulling the fighter's nose up. Slamming on the afterburners, he completed the straightforward maneuver, shifting his vector from zero to ninety degrees, virtually the length of the fighter itself.

He had noticed something—and Andriy was a very observant pilot. The Nistrom fighters were slightly slower at changing vectors, and particularly at executing such a radical turn.

And before the last Nistrom could finish the maneuver, it slammed into the rapidly-approaching cliff-face.

As the Nistrom fighter disappeared in a fireball, Andriy released a sigh of relief; but dizziness quickly assailed him. His eyes drooped downward as his head began to float, bobbing back and forth on top the anchor of his neck. He knew, thought he knew, couldn't really think anymore—"Computer, autopilot," he murmured, uncertain if his words were coherent. Blood was now gushing from his legs. "Return to the _Fortitude._"

...

"Bridge, this is the captain!" York shouted, moving before the aeroshuttle came to a complete stop inside the _Fortitude_. With the rear hatch open, she leapt out, dashing across the expansive bay. "Disengage and return to the array! _Now_!"

_But first matters first._ There was the unknown fighter pilot who had saved their lives; the fighter pilot sat in the cockpit of his craft, making no apparent movement whatsoever. Hoping up onto the port wing, with Veronica clambering up opposite the captain, the two women triggered the explosive bolts to open the windscreen.

It was Andriy Shevchenko.

Captain York gave a double-take, checking to make certain that her eyes were not deceiving her; but the pilot was most definitely their mission observer, and he was slumped backward, clearly unconscious. The thick, coppery smell of blood filled the pilot's compartment, and Christine could see that the young man's legs were drenched in violet-red.

**«ɵ»**

Christine York curled her fists tightly, digging the tips of her fingers into the combat-scarred leather of her command chair. The bridge, for all its recent combat, was in a vague form of functional state; a few shattered displays, some gapping bulkheads, and carpet liberally streaked with sooty black only accented the battle-readiness of the _Fortitude._

And there would be battle, _soon, _Christine knew. The Nistrom city-ship was hot behind them, clinging to the wake of the Starfleet ship for the entire six-hour journey back to the array. The moment the _Fortitude _dropped to subluminal speed…and something was wrong. Clearly, horribly, wrong. "Commander Sa'awek, what's the status of the array?" Christine asked, looking back over her shoulder.

Although the status was visibly clear, the Vulcan tactical chief checked his sensors for confirmation. "The array has ceased emitting the energy pulses," Sa'awek answered; his flat tones belied the gravity of the development.

_We need answers._

The Maquis commander, Na-zhe, sat beside her in the jump seat; and Christine leaned to her left, shielding her mouth behind her hand as she spoke. "I'd appreciate any ideas," she whispered. "I need to hold off the Nistrom long enough to transport an away team onto the array."

Na-zhe grunted softly. "Captain, you're barely a match for them," he answered. "Unless…" His normally-immobile face began to crack open. "What's the status of _my _ship?"

"Your crew isn't making much noise," Christine answered, cuing up the data on her arm console. "But it looks like their repairs are almost complete."

Strafing patterns were already forming in Na-zhe's mind as he replied. "Send myself and DeVora back to the _Tom Joad, _then. We'll tip the odds."

"And then what, Commander?" Christine asked softly, dreading the question she had to breach.

Na-zhe didn't answer at first. "Captain, fair is fair," he began, speaking slowly as he thought. "If you beam us back, we could just as easily skip out—but we'll stay in the fight, and keep the _Fortitude _safe."

Christine could feel the knife of duty twisting uncomfortably in her gut. "I _am _under orders to arrest you. How can I justify letting you go?"

Na-zhe snorted roughly. "Captain, believe it or not, I still have fond memories of Starfleet," he replied. "I have no desire to fight with you, especially not out here. All I ask—is a head start."

"Commander, you're asking me to—"

"I'm asking you to ignore your orders and obey your duty."

"It's that simple for you, isn't it?" Christine whispered.

Na-zhe gave the captain an implacable smile. "As another Starfleet captain once said, risk is part of the game, if you want to sit in that chair."

_Not just risk, but the illusion of decisiveness and certainty._ The words echoed in her ear, reminding Christine of Command 101, minus the archaic admiral with hair growing from his ears. "How do I know you won't simply take off? This isn't exactly your fight."

Na-zhe's eyes gleamed from within his opaque expression. "I fight for those who can't fight, Captain."

"I may have judged you wrong, Commander," Christine answered. She was troubled by the doubts that he was stirring up within, but she could not deny them; at some point, some unknown point, their mission had changed. "We have to protect the Lemurians."

...

The array let them in.

Swirls of light materialized into humanoid forms, depositing Christine York and Veronica Stadi within the sheltered confines of a rustic barn. The straw-packed dirt floors were as she remembered from the Kansas prairies of her youth, but suffused incongruously with flickers of light from a pair of oil lamps; it lacked the soft pungency of animal denizens, the sharp delineations between ovine and bovine, the familiar presence of any life at all.

The soft twang of a banjo, plucked a string at a time in something akin to melody, was the only sound to be heard; and it guided them, the two Starfleet officers, around an ell. In the rear corner of the barn—between two wooden walls, tucked away within the protective embrace of a pen—was an old man, sitting in the dying glow of a lamp.

He plucked one string; then, moments later, he plucked the next, the sound disappearing quickly into the silent reproach of encroaching darkness. "Well," he said slowly, his voice cracking and raspy, "you're nothing if not persistent." Only now, having said the words, did he set the banjo on the dirt beside him, braced up against the wooden slats of the wall.

When the man didn't look up, Christine knelt down before him. "We need you to send us home," she stated, uncertain what tone to use. Should she be demanding or appealing? Controlling or pleading? Commanding or solicitous? It was difficult enough when dealing with humans—_how do I handle an unknown alien?_

Raising his hand, the old man rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, . "It isn't that easy," he admitted, either unwilling or unable to look at the Starfleet captain. "It takes a lot of power to move a starship."

"But you can do it?" Christine pressed.

The man shook his head. "No," he moaned, miserably. "I need all of my power to protect the Lemurians."

"You _are _dying, aren't you?" she replied gingerly.

The man nodded in affirmation. "I must transfer all the power I can before I die. But even that…is only temporary." His voice cracked and wavered. "When it runs out…they will be unable to hold off the Nistrom. Their deaths will be my fault."

"How is that—" Christine rocked backward slightly as understanding dawned. "You caused the ecological catastrophe? The one that made the surface of their planet uninhabitable?"

"It was an accident," the old man lamented, finally dropping his hand and raising his face. "A simple machine failure that should _never _have happened. And so many of them died…only I can keep them alive."

"But if you've been trying to protect the Lemurians…why do you bring ships here? Why do you infect people with a fatal illness?"

"_Fatal_?" The old man's face fell in newfound agony. "My tests were _fatal_?"

"Tests?" Christine queried sharply. "Tests for _what_?"

"I've been searching for a species with the appropriate biomolecular pattern," the old man answered.

"You've been trying to procreate?"

"_Procreate_?" He echoed the word with distaste. "That is such a—a vulgar description. But I suppose…I have been trying to find my progeny. Someone who can take over when I'm gone, who can maintain the array, and understands the responsibility I bear to the Lemurians."

"But…" Christine shook her head, tripping over one remaining piece.

"The equipment is somehow linked to your biology," Veronica murmured, the answer coming to her in something between sensation and intuition. "None of us can take your place."

...

The Nistrom city-ship dwarfed the _Fortitude _in size and power.

The bridge washed out momentarily in white as overloaded circuitry burst overhead, filling every cranny of the command center with brilliant glare. Vertical membranes slammed shut over Sa'awek's eyes, protecting the Vulcan from the dazzling flare; but others, he noted, were less fortunate; even in the racket, Sa'awek could hear the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor.

"Evasive pattern tango-four!" Sa'awek barked sharply, projecting his voice over the din of battle. He felt the subtle shift in pressure as the starship responded, following the commands of the helmsman. "Tactical, fire phasers at will!"

Red beams of phased energy shot out from the _Fortitude_, briefly lighting up the frozen space before striking their target with precision. The weapons fire was unerring, but insufficient; the gargantuan ship stumbled under the blow, but lurched forward, shaking off the stun.

The Nistrom fired again, sending bolts of energy around the smaller starship; even near misses buffeted the Starfleet ship with their passing wake. Sooner or later, Sa'awek judged, the Nistrom gunners must get lucky; he could only hope that the captain would complete her mission in time.

...

"Report!" Na-zhe barked from the forward pilot's seat of the _Tom Joad_, pulling the raider about in a sharp-angled turn towards the enemy monstrosity. DeVora Juarez, his loyal comrade, rode beside him as copilot; and the remaining crew, frustrated by several days of repair work and no combat, bustled about behind and belowdecks.

"Damnit!" DeVora growled. "It's no good, Ma-chu! We just don't have the firepower!"

...

"Don't see?" the old man pleaded. Starting to rock with emphasis, he nearly fell from the stool. "I must find a successor!"

"I understand your plight," Christine replied softly, feeling a sense of compassion for the dying alien; _I may be imagining it, _she thought, but the shadows in the barn seemed to be growing, stretching into longer and longer forms, as if the solitary flickers of fire were beginning to pass away. "I wish we could help. But what is there that we can do?"

Gazing up the captain, the old man's eyes teared up with a lifetime of regret. "I must save the Lemurians," he whispered, but little hope lay beneath his creaking voice. "I must protect them."

Veronica knelt down before him, planting her knees in the dried mud, and reaching forward, Stadi wrapped her own youthful hands around the Conservator's age-stained fingers. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

"You must—must destroy the array."

The Conservator's answer unnerved the captain. "If we destroy the array, how will we get home?"

The old man only moaned in response, and Veronica answered. "We won't, Captain. At least, not the same way we got here."

"But if we don't destroy the array—" Christine knelt down as well, joining the two others at eye level; somewhere, in the background, a rush of dark swooped in as a lamp flickered and died. "If the Nistrom seize it, they could destroy the Lemurians."

Veronica altered her gaze towards the captain. "We can't defend them indefinitely. But we can at least buy time for the Lemurians to find a way to defend themselves. Their energy reserve can hold off the Nistrom for several years."

"And then what?" the old man moaned. "I have served my penance for three hundred revolutions—but in the end…it will all be for naught."

Veronica tensed suddenly, and Christine felt it a moment later: the old man slumped forward, lethargically, ceasing for a long moment in mid-movement. Beside them, the last lamp flickered once, then twice, then disappeared in a tiny trail of smoke; and the barn dropped into twilight, before that too was extinguished in darkness.

In the eclipsed shadows of the Stygian night, reality itself began to flicker, began to waver; the darkness took on a gulf of its own, a sense of unrefined, Erebusian haze. Here and there—scattered about them—flashes of blue lightning appeared, scarring the depths with afterglow.

Gradually, with the deliberate haste of a sunrise, the room began to brighten once again; but the barn and its surroundings were long gone. Instead, the two women found themselves in what was clearly a space-age facility; computer panels and pulsating lights surrounded them, blinking in unknown patterns of meaning.

Veronica stood up first, easing herself upward to full height; laying on the deck before them was a small, smoky-white crystalline form, no larger than an Earth potato.

"Is that—" Christine asked softly, unwilling to say the words.

Stadi bent over and picked it up. "It is," she answered, turning the dead crystal over in her hands.

The array rumbled with the impact of weapons.

...

_Hang on tight, _Na-zhe reminded himself as the small raider juked yet again, swinging wildly as it tore through space. The fierce power of Nistrom disruptors burned around them, slamming through points only fractions of a second late; _their targeting controls have a lag, _Na-zhe understood,, but even a quarter-second delay would be fatal.

_At least they won't fire on the array itself. _The elongated structure, thin and spindly, provided the _Tom Joad_ with cover as Na-zhe threaded his way about the telescoping arms, wrapping and dancing around them like tree branches It was a delicate game, but one he knew well; _the terrain works to my advantage_, the Maquis commander knew, and he was determined to use it.

The massive city-ship had slow owed as it approached the array, clearly concerned with causing inadvertent damage to the valuable installation; behind Na-zhe, the Maquis gunners unloaded furiously, directing bolt after bolt of seething lightning at the Nistrom vessel. Sizzling beams shot across space, instantly converting sullen cold to iridescent tempest and back again, before wreaking havoc on the unshielded hull plates of the monstrous vessel.

_But we could fire all day, and never make real progress. _The confirmation was plain before Na-zhe's eyes: the sheer size of the Nistrom ship, absorbed the punishing blows, dissipating energy throughout the craft before bleeding it back into space. _And anything harder_—Na-zhe shuddered slightly, debating the notion with himself. The _Tom Joad _was equipped with several quantum torpedoes; but how many non-combatants were aboard that ship?

"It's no good!" DeVora snarled in frustration, pounding the control panels again. The half-Klingon woman shook her head, sending angry locks of hair flying about "We don't have the firepower to hobble their ship!"

Na-zhe nodded grimly, finding little choice but to agree with the assessment. "What option do we have?" he responded, raising his voice over the shrieking of battered deck plates.

"We have to take out our own damned ship!" DeVora answered, growling again with ferocity. Na-zhe could see the signs: the sharp, hard breathing, the widened eyes, the arch forward that signified his comrade's aggressive passion.

"You want me to blow up my _ship_?" Na-zhe retorted, more intrigued than outraged. It _could _work, he judged; the trick was applying intermediate force in the right location—not too much, not too little, and with deadly precision. "DeVora," he announced suddenly, hoping his words would carry through the battle rage. "Can you locate their warp plasma exhausts?.

Juarez growled, and did as asked her own unchecked rage contrasted nicely with Na-zhe's studied calmness, the channeling of his own fury into arch-awareness.

Na-zhe smiled grimly. _We have a target._

"Jettison the quantum torpedoes and intermix chamber!" he bellowed, more-or-less rearward; the high-intensity explosives would cause the wrong sort of damage. _What we need to do…_Na-zhe input the commands as he thought. _Is to jam this right up their big fucking ass. Take out their stardrive, without detonating it._

"Drop our shields!" he snapped, weaving the small raider through the limbs of the array, eking out every final kilometer o protection for their approach. "Na-zhe to_ Fortitude!_ Prepare to transport my crew, but leave me until my make!"

"Affirmative, commander!"an unidentified voice commanded. The first Maquis crewmembers disappeared in a second, dematerializing into the mystifying beam of swirling matter and energy.

Na-zhe threaded his way skillfully around the final arm of the array, and paused, just for a moment, inside the protective penumbra of its phalange panels; internal sensors counted down the seconds as each person disappeared, DeVora Juarez leaving last of all.

...

"Report!" Christine bellowed as her first foot hit the battle-stained carpet of the bridge; her ears were beset by screaming alarms, and her eyes by granular smoke, but the dashed-together bridge staff moved about with precision and alacrity.

"Sir!" Zhevra, the closest officer, shouted back in response. Directed by the Andorian's summons, Christine's gaze refocused, shifting to the static-filled viewscreen at the foot of the lower bridge. The image was harsh and incomplete, filled with minute, pixilated explosions of neurotic energy, split apart with a stuttered, staccato-like effect that shattered a single view into several screen captures.

_But it's enough._ Across the middle stretched a long arm, presumably part of the array, notable more for its darkness than for any light of its own. Contrasting sharply was the brightened image of the Nistrom city-ship, consuming a sizable majority of the screen; incongruently, it momentarily struck her as resembling a Terran penguin, stretched horizontally, with a tubby midsection stretching behind the pointed beak.

She didn't even see the Maquis raider; but she saw the effect.

The rear of the Nistrom ship disappeared in the stroboscopic explosion of a billowing ball of flame, the heat and fire momentarily ripping through the frozen nothingness; and the conflagration disappeared quickly, extinguished by the exhaustion of its fuel and the asphyxiation of space.

"The Nistrom ship is veering off!" Zhevra exclaimed excitedly; the sensor data was far more valuable than the fractured visual. "Transporter control reports that Commander Na-zhe was successfully beamed aboard!"

_A last-second transporter rescue, _Christine noted wryly. _I think I've heard that one before. _But there was scarce time for reflection; and she tapped her combadge, opening a verbal channel to the tactical officer on the far side of the bridge. "Sa'awek, damage report on the Nistrom ship," she requested promptly, chasing down an unwelcome suspicion.

The Vulcan's placid tones responded an instant later. "Minor," Sa'awek reported. "I would refer to it as a temporary stun. We have thirty seconds, at most."

_Thirty seconds. _It was too long, much too long, for every nanosecond ticked and tocked at audible intervals, each one reverberating in her mind with thundering resonance. How she longed for the captain—_her _captain! The old, cagey shrew would have known what to do, would have had a solution and several options, would have the magical cure to not just save the Lemurians, but return the _Fortitude _to Federation space at the same time.

And Christine could do neither.

With the Conservator dead and the Nistrom present, using the array to send them home promised only the illusion of salvation. And if they destroyed the array…it would buy the Lemurians a few years, at best, until the energy stored on the planet ran out. Or she could try to destroy the Nistrom—an absurd hope that would, if inconceivably successful, kill an entire community of beings.

_Where's the happy ending? Where's the magical cure at the end? Where's the miraculous techno-babble that saves the day? _She felt small and impotent.

"Commander Sa'awek," she replied, her voice expressing defeat. "Load a brace of torpedoes, and target the array."

To his credit, the Vulcan was unflustered. "Aye, sir," he replied, then: "On your mark."

"Fire," Christine ordered.

The bursts of energy shot across the viewscreen, lost in the static; only the shockwave beneath her feet gave evidence that the barrage had struck the target. "Damage report," she requested.

"Moderate damage only," Sa'awek replied.

"Load another spread and fire," Christine ordered.

From without, as if seen by a neutral observer, another fusillade of energy packets sallied forth from the wounded starship, leaping across the intervening openness before slamming, a split second later, into the core of the fireball still growing and splintering from the first salvo. The array, assailed by compounding force, began to rupture somewhere deep within; and a massive paroxysm of force ripped outward through the superstructure, quickening its pace as it tore the array to pieces. Hundreds of secondary detonations added to the dying convulsions.

But there was no time to wait. "Helm," Christine barked out harshly, "get us the _fuck _outta here!"

The _Fortitude _disappeared into the blossom of Cherenkov radiation.

**«ɵ»**

Captain's Log, supplemental. As I sit here, staring out the window, I can only think of one thing…what have I done?

Two weeks ago, the _Fortitude _left Deep Space Nine with one hundred forty-one crew and one observer.

Now, limping through space some seventy thousand light-years away, they had lost sixty-eight members of their crew—almost half, reducing them to seventy-three.

On the captain's orders, the battered, half-broken starship came to a wheezing stop in an unnamed star system, safely beyond the immediate reach of their new Nistrom adversaries. The single star, a minor yellow dwarf slightly smaller and cooler than Earth's own, provided the candle of warmth in these frozen reaches of otherwise-barren space; it was meager, but it provided the solace of home, and they basked in the relative comfort of its glow.

Stepping forward, Ensign Zhevra placed a small, musical pipe between his lips. A sharp, prolonged whistle came forth, holding in the air for several seconds as it filled the expansive launch bay. It was the only place on board large enough for the entire crew, including the ranks of caskets, to gather; there would be time, in the coming days, to conduct individual ceremonies for each of the fallen, but this—Christine allowed herself a deep breath as the whistle fell silent. It was important for them to gather, all as one, in honor of their comrades.

It was Sa'awek's turn, and the dignified Vulcan stepped forth. "All hands bury the dead!" he announced with strong tenor, embodying a strong, surprising sense of reverence.

Zhevra blew the whistle again, bringing the gathered crew first to attention, and then to parade rest.

Christine smoothed the front of her uniform as she stepped forward, feeling self-conscious as every eye turned to her. She, like the crew, was dressed in her best uniform; and it was covered in dirt and grime, stained with unknown fluids. Her hair was ragged and greasy, held back in a simple pixyish ponytail, the blond liberally streaked with black.

She began, haltingly, to recite the words she had memorized. Unnerved by the weight of attention on her, she stuttered slightly at first, stumbling over the pace of the phrasing while her stomach twisted and turned, roiling itself like a cauldron. _Why me? _She wondered plaintively, becoming hyperaware of each and every person in the launch bay. She had failed to keep them safe; she had failed her duty to them. And now they regarded her with such…_expectation_. They expected her to get their home.

She, who had failed to protect nearly half the crew already.

_What am I going to do? _She asked herself, feeling small and lost, humbled by the immensity of the task that lay before them. Seventy _thousand _light-years, as the Great Bird of the Galaxy flies—and she was two _weeks _into her first formal command. The crew was decimated, and the ship little more than salvage.

She spoke the requisite words, moving smoothly into the committal portion of the ceremony. She was surprised at how firm her voice sounded; how it elicited none of the unease, of the seismic quaking, that she felt within. Instead, it was strong and compassionate, fierce without being belligerent, confident without being foolish.

_What have I done?_

_...  
_

His makeshift quarters were cramped and beaten, the power half-functional and furniture strewn about. But it wasn't the brig.

_And that, _Ma-chú-na-zhe supposed, _is more than I could have hoped for._ He sat, cross-legged, in the center of the room, where he had cleared the area of debris, meditating on the rapid twists and turns of his path that had led him out _here_, from his people, his land, everything he had known, to the far end of the galaxy. And now, dependent on the goodwill of a Starfleet captain.

He hadn't fled. He hadn't taken off when given the chance, hadn't piloted the _Tom Joad _away while the _Fortitude _was battling the Nistrom. Why hadn't e? True, he had given his word. But such a thing meant little in Starfleet\, where ideals and convictions were so often sacrificed on the altar of pragmatism and self-preservation. _It isn't like the days of old, _he told himself, wondering if such days had ever really existed at all. Now, Starfleet could only be trusted when it was in their interest.

_And perhaps that's the answer, _Na-zhe reflected. Was it in the interests of Christine York to cultivate the Maquis, rather than imprison them? Should he reciprocate? Was it best for his _own _crew to work with the Starfleeters, who might nonetheless incarcerate him? He couldn't deny feeling a certain responsibility, after all. They were still _his _people, and out here, so far away from home, they surely bore a responsibility for each other.

_And we won't get home without them, _he thought, shuddering as if shaking off imaginary dirt. His own sense of self-preservation and pragmatism sullied Na-zhe in his own eyes.

The Doors jerked loudly, but Na-zhe did not jump from his reverie; his mind was too well trained for such a reaction Instead, he kept his eyes closed, relying on other senses to fill in the necessary information; and they told him that a being stood in the haf-open ingress, moving neither in nor out. _It is Sa'awek, _Na-zhe judged, trusting some unknown instinct.

Slowly, Na-zhe opened his eyes, releasing himself from the embrace of meditation before turning to acknowledge the shadowed figure. "Come in, " Na-zhe stated, waving to the newcomer; and the person moved inward, the doors awkwardly slamming shut behind him. The

The Scattered, flickering lights illuminated an angular face, somewhat gaunt, with a serious mien; two pointed ears nearly disappeared beneath the bushy hair. "Am I disturbing you, Commander?" the Vulcan asked, inquiring with polite stiffness.

"Not at all," Na-zhe replied,, a little surprised at the identity of his guest. "What can I do for you?"

"I…would like to ask you a personal question," Sa'awek answered.

"I can't guarantee an answer," Na-zhe replied, flashing a friendly smile. "But ask away."

Sa'awek nodded slowly, as if hesitating before speaking. "I am a little perplexed," he stated at last, as if unwillingly admitting a deep sense of insecurity. "Your reactions to myself and Mr. Shevchenko have been quite different I effectively betrayed you, whereas Mr. Shevchenko was a mercenary, and yet you seem to have reserved your ire for him."

"And you're wondering why," Na'zhe noted, filling in the missing question. It wasn't unexpected. "Andriy Shevchenko sold out everything he might've believed in, Vulcan. You, on the other hand…you may have betrayed _me_, but in your own way, you stayed true to your convictions." Na-zhe licked his lips. "And I admire that," he added on, debating how much to say.

"I see." Sa'awek furrowed his brow, as if a new thought had just come to him. "Do you regret your decisions, Commander?" he asked.

"You mean, do I regret leaving Starfleet for the Maquis?" Na-zhe took his time to formulate an answer. "I would do it again," he said. "But—I didn't enjoy leaving Starfleet. I guess you can say, I don't regret my decision to leave; but I do regret having to choose between the two." A sudden thought struck Na-zhe. "What about you, Vulcan? Do you regret _your _decision to stay with Starfleet?"

Sa'awek trembled uncharacteristically. "I guess you could say…" his voice trailed as the Vulcan contemplated his answer. "You could say that I, too, regret having to choose between the two. It is curious," Sa'awek continued. "How we made the opposite choice, yet we have the same regret."

From nowhere, Na-zhe's face split into a grin. "There is a tide in the affairs of men," he quoted, recalling a fragment from his youth. "Taken at the flood, it leads on to fortune; but when not taken, all the voyages of their lives are left bound in shallows and miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat."


End file.
